


Figure 8: The Infinite Fate

by Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance, Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 104,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat/pseuds/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate brought them together in King's Landing only to pull them apart during the Battle of the Blackwater. With Sandor on the Quiet Isle and Sansa in the Eyrie, they both begin to feel the fates accelerating them towards one another once again. Sandor takes his fate in his own hands and decides to leave the Quiet Isle in search of his Little Bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! This is my first attempt at Fan Fiction so comments, suggestions, questions, and the like via reviews and private messages are all very much welcome.
> 
> This story picks up during "A Feast For Crows" with Sandor on the Quiet Isle and Sansa in the Eyrie. Needless to say, there are many spoilers from the books so be mindful of that if you haven't read the books or haven't gotten through AFFC. I tried to keep details as accurate to the books as possible, but you may notice things here or there that are slightly different.

He awoke from a fitful slumber, violently gasping for air, chest heaving, and sweat beading on his brow despite the persistent chill in the air. ' _Winter is coming_ ,' it whispered.  _Indeed it is…_  His eyes instinctively darted around the room to every shadowed object, studying them until recognition flashed across his mind.

He half expected to see his brother amongst those shadows, growing from the darkness into flesh and blood form, coming to finish what was started so many years ago. Sandor Clegane dared not count how many nights were marred by dreams of his brother, Gregor.

He had not seen his brother since the Tourney of the Hand when he had been named champion for sparring the life of the Knight of Flowers from Gregor's wrath. That was a lifetime ago, it seemed, his former life when red rage consumed him and he lived for the pleasure of spilling Gregor's lifeblood.

During that time, he would drink himself into a daze and would pass out into a dreamless sleep, a black oblivion from which he would awake with his head throbbing and fury still burning through his veins. On the occasion when his sleep was filled with dreams, he was always fulfilling his waking visions and making good on the silent promise he had made to himself. Sometimes his sword would plunge through steel and flesh and bone and he would cut Gregor open from neck to groin with his blood running black and sticky from his body. Other times they would be aboard a massive longship, sailing through an endless red sea and Sandor would toss his brother into that consuming crimson water as easily as a child might fling a doll.

Since coming to the Quiet Isle, the dreams which haunted Sandor Clegane were not of killing his brother. Rather, he dreamt of the day when Gregor had dragged him to the brazier and thrust his face upon the glowing embers, burning away his flesh and leaving half his face wrecked with scars.

His gaze fixed on the octagonal window in his modest quarters. Through the thick pane of glass he could tell that dawn was ascending upon the horizon, threatening to extinguish the stars from the sky so that the sun could once again ride up to its rightful place.

Any effort to drift back into sleep would be futile he knew. Instead, he threw his legs over the edge of his straw mattress that made up his humble bed. He rested his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his eyes, trying to drive away his fatigue. At least his injured leg throbbed less today. For that he was thankful.

The Elder Brother would soon summon him. With this in mind, Sandor retreated from his bed, stepped into his boots, and pulled his brown robe over his broad shoulders and the tunic he slept in. He emptied a pitcher of cold water into a washbowl and cupped his hands into the water. He welcomed the coolness on his face.

He studied his face in the small mirror that hung above the wooden wash table. Typically, he avoided mirrors. He needed no reminder that his face was a ruin. It never truly bothered him that only a handful of people could look him in the face and even when they did, he still caught the glimmer of disgust in their eyes. He had found it somewhat humorous and it only stoked his bitterness, which in turn fueled his fearsome reputation. That reputation had served him well for many years.

_The Hound. But that was before everything had changed. I died as the Hound…only to be resurrected as Sandor Clegane._

The Hound had reveled in the repulsion his scars inspired in others.  _Until her…_

Her fear and repulsion somehow had stirred something deep inside of his being. Not the Hound's being, but Sandor Clegane's. Her averted eyes and forced courtesies enraged him, to be sure, but also made him feel somehow inadequate and very conscious of the gruesome sight that was his face.

_Bugger that… Far be it for me to give a fuck what may have been going through that pretty little head of hers when she looked upon my face._

Sandor snatched the small towel that had been folded next to the washbowl with so much force the washbowl flew from the table and crashed onto the floor in what seemed to be a hundred pieces. He pushed the towel into his face and sighed deeply.  _Seven bloody hells…Get a hold of yourself!_

With a furrowed brow he stared at the destroyed wash bowl on the floor. He shook his head, shuffled to the door of his room, and swung it open. Unbidden, he closed the door with a thunderous thud.  _Well, if the Brothers hadn't been awoken by the crash of the washbowl, they are surely awake now._ He felt a thin smile spread from his lips and shook his head before beginning down the long corridor towards the central hall, hobbling slightly as he went.

As he passed by the long slender window adjacent to the central hall's massive oaken doors, he realized the sun was now ridding up on the horizon. He entered into the central hall and found it bathed in the violet hues of dawn.

Much like everything else on the Quiet Isle, the central hall was rather unassuming. Three long rows of tables, each sitting approximately twenty, made up the center of the room. At each, mismatched chairs dotted the length of the table, many warped with time and use. Sandor preferred the rustic simplicity. The ostentatious extravagance of the Red Keep and its inhabitants in King's Landing grated on his nerves.

_Bloody fools… Spouting pleasantries through a smile, waiting patiently for your back to turn to commence your downfall…Treacherous bloody bastards!_

His thoughts fleeted to her.  _Is she still at the mercy of the fucking Lannisters and their pathetic pawns?_ The last he had heard they had married her off to the Imp. When he had heard the news, his blood boiled and his fury seethed from the bottom of his soul.  _The Imp…What in the seven hells were they playing at with that move? Was it to shame her? Or was she being positioned in their game?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the faint flicker that danced in the periphery of the hall. He hadn't heard the Elder Brother ascend into the room. The man was tall, not quite as tall as Sandor, but he somehow moved as silent as a mouse.  _I suppose when I've spent as much time here as him, I will move as silently as he does…_

As the man approached, Sandor nodded his head in greeting and the Elder Brother did the same. The Elder Brother motioned towards a wooden chair at Sandor's side, bidding him to sit. Sandor complied, pulling the chair from the table, and slowly lowering to take his seat, a throng of pain moving through his leg. The Elder Brother pulled out a chair and sat directly across from Sandor.

"I was awoken this morning by quite the calamity coming from your room," the Elder Brother began, his face distorting into a puzzled expression as if tentatively choosing his next words. "The Hound is at rest, Brother, but it appears Sandor Clegane and the Hound are more intricately bound to one another than I had once thought. Two sides of the same coin, I fear." Sandor sat in silence, looking off into the corner of the room, but nonetheless absorbing the man's words.

"I was a knight once. I had little else, but my sword, shield, and horse. I fought for the high lords and eventually laid down my life for their cause. I came here much as you did. Bloody from battle, a tormented soul, I was. I remained in silence for ten years. No words spilled forth from my mouth, but my mind was far from silent. I replayed the events of my former life in my head. Every regret, every broken promise, every moment of happiness, every torment, every woman I had bedded, every woman I had loved, the men I had killed, the men I had fought beside. Forgotten memories appeared from the shadows of my mind. Day and night, the memories never stopped. I thought I was going mad. In truth, I probably was." A touch of sadness appeared behind the hardened eyes of the Elder Brother as he sighed deeply. His gaze caught Sandor squarely in the eyes.

Without breaking his stare, the Elder Brother lowered his voice, emphasizing each word "You must release the remains of your former life, even if they are only thoughts in your mind. The Hound is gone. You would do well to leave his torment behind. The Gods brought you forth again. Honor their gift by letting go of the past that tortures you."

With that, the Elder Brother pushed himself from the table and stood before silently retreating from the room.

After breaking his fast, Sandor took his leave from the central hall and pushed through the outer doors into the hazy fog of the morning. He felt the sun warm the back of his neck and relished the moment until he pulled the hood of the robe up around his face. Slowly, with shovel in hand, he began ascending up a soft slopping hill to the open field that lay at the top.

His breath had become labored upon reaching the top. His leg was screaming in protest, as it did every morning when he made his way up the hill. His leg had been slow to heal, but the familiar throbbing was subsiding little by little with each passing day. At the top of the hill a large oak tree stood forty paces ahead. Its trunk was a massive column of rough brown bark which extended into a canopy of crimson and orange leaves, the chilly autumn breeze rustled through its branches.

Sandor began his work by plunging the spade of his shovel into the cold, hard earth, which eventually relented under his force. He tossed the loosened dirt behind his shoulder. Methodically, he shoved his spade into the earth, and released it into the air behind him. Again and again and again, he repeated the motions, his thoughts empty. He did this for some time. For once his mind was still. When his back began to ache, he stopped, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow with his woolen sleeve.

He propped the shovel against the oak tree and slowly moved towards the wooden fence which lay a few feet behind the tree. His legs gave out from under him and he slumped to the ground, resting his back against the fence. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and let the warmth of the sun wash over his face.

A slight shuffling sound caught his attention along with a soft scuffling of claws on wood and finally the faintest peep. Sandor took down the hood of his cloak and inclined his head towards the noises. There he saw a small golden finch perched upon the wooden fence. It inched towards him with little hops until coming within a foot of where he was sitting with his back against the fence. Sandor stared at the finch as it peeped at him thrice more and then fluttered away towards a high branch of the expansive oak tree. For the first time in as long as he could remember, a broad, encompassing smile swept suddenly across his face.  _What is the Little Bird doing? Is she safe? I could leave this place and get her. I should've taken her with me when I had the chance._

_'…release the remains of your former life, even if they are only thoughts in your mind.'_ The Elder Brother's words flashed into his mind and he knew they were true. The Hound symbolized hatred, rage, and torment. He was ready to put aside the hatred, quiet the rage, and silent the torment. He was ready to release himself of those chains. Given enough time, he may even be able to let go of the vengeance he felt towards Gregor.

With time, his former life would slip away; this he knew and welcomed it. However, there was one thing he was  _not_  willing to release.  _Not in seven bloody hells! Not the little bird. She was the only thing worthwhile in the Hound's life. Her memory is the only one I will fight to keep…_

That night Sandor Clegane drifted into a peaceful sleep, brought on by the exhaustion of his day. He dreamt of her, singing sweetly and softly to him and not because he had forced her to give him a song, but because she had wanted to give him a song.


	2. Chapter 2

**_"You kissed him! You enticed him, just as your mother did that night in Riverrun, with her smiles and her dancing. You think I could forget? You are as wanton as your mother. Marillion, play us 'The False and the Fair.'"_ **

**_Sansa's skirts flapped frantically about her shivering legs with the icy gust that flew through the open Moon Door which beckoned her to the oblivion below. Her heart pounded in her chest as Marillion's voice bellowed through the High Hall._ **

**_Her Aunt's face contorted into an irate and maddening smile, her eyes a burning fury which were once Tully blue, but now as black as tar. Sansa's mouth gaped in terror, her body shaking furiously. She gasped when she lost her balance from her Aunt's forceful shove and started tumbling towards the open door. Her foot caught underneath the other, flinging her body forward and out into the sky beyond._ **

**_As she stumbled out the moon door, a hand flew out to catch her forearm. With a strong grasp, her unknown savior began pulling her back into the High Hall. Sansa swung her other arm up and desperately grabbed the heavily muscled forearm of the man bringing her to safety. 'It's him. He's come to save me. He said no one would ever hurt me again or he'd kill them. Oh gods, it's really him.'_ **

**_Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fell to her knees on the High Hall floor. Her chest heaved as uncontrolled sobs wracked her body as she lay at the feet of her protector. Her eyes slowly began wondering up his form. He was exactly as she remembered; one of the tallest men she had ever seen, dark wool breeches, mailed fists at his side, black scaled armor. The breath caught in her chest as her eyes worked towards his face._ **

**_'I was so scared of his face. I couldn't even look at him. Now, I want nothing more than to see that face.' She closed her eyes and sighed. She opened her eyes again to look upon his face. A sinister smile spread about his wormy lips. Golden curls tumbled into the green pools that were his eyes. A grumbling emerged from his throat and exploded into a mocking laugh. Sansa struggled to get to her feet, but her legs were frozen beneath her and she could not will them to move._ **

**_Joffrey kneeled down beside her and pulled her chin up to meet his gaze with so much force she thought her head might pop off of her shoulders. He pushed his fat lips against her mouth. She screamed in disgust and horror while her mouth filled with blood at his kiss. When he pulled away, that same dreadful smile played about his lips. His voice was barely above a whisper, but she heard him nonetheless. "Let us see if his Little Bird can fly." With that, he pushed her from the Moon Door. She fell screaming to meet the ground below._ **

When Sansa woke from her nightmare, her face was stained with tears. In an effort to comfort herself, her trembling hands met her cheeks and she gently wiped away the tears with soft strokes.

_Lysa is dead and so is Joffrey. They can never hurt me again._ Ever since the chaos that ensued a fortnight past in the High Hall, her Aunt Lysa had haunted her dreams. They all ended the same with Sansa meeting her demise by flying out of the Moon Door. Sansa realized tears were still tumbling down her cheeks in a quiet, steady stream.

She had had these dreams before. They were disturbing, to be sure. However, there was something deeply troubling about last night's dream. She had nightmares about Joffrey when he had ordered her father executed. His cameo in her dream was not what was bothering her. She replayed the dream in her head.  _'Let us see if his Little Bird can fly.'_

The realization hit her at once.  _I thought it was him. I was so sure he had come to save me. I wanted so badly to open my eyes and see his face, scars and all. But I hadn't. He wasn't there. This feeling…is disappointment. I wanted it to be him. Him saving me, him kissing me._

Her thoughts wandered to the Battle of the Blackwater when she had come upon him in her bedchamber.  _He kissed me then. He took his song and returned the favor with a kiss._ That was the last time Sansa had seen the Hound. She had been thinking of him often since coming to the Eyrie. Somehow thinking of him made her feel safe, even if it was only an illusion. She knew better than to think she was truly safe. Lord Baelish had rescued her from King's Landing and whisked her away to the Eyrie.  _'The Eyrie is impregnable'_  Sweetrobin would say. Be that as it may, it was the people already within the Eyrie that concerned Sansa.

Littlefinger concerned her the most, even though she could not exactly put her finger on what was so troubling about him. He had always been kind to her and he had saved her after all. Years ago, Sansa would daydream about some gallant knight whisking her away from Winterfell to some far off land. In those visions, her knight was painfully handsome, courteous to a fault, and desperately in love with her. She silently chuckled at that memory and shook her head.  _That girl really was stupid, head in the clouds. But I am Alayne now. And Alayne is older, smarter, and, above all, warier._

Littlefinger was no gallant knight, of that she was certain, and was comely, but something about his eyes made her uncomfortable. More than anything, she regretted all the time she spent wishing and praying to leave Winterfell.  _What I wouldn't give to be back home with my family whole again…_

Sansa gave a resigned sigh and hopped from her bed. She winced when her bare feet hit the cold stone floor of her bedchamber. She hurriedly crossed the room to the tall armoire which held her clothes. Littlefinger had filled the armoire with her Aunt Lysa's finest gowns and jewels. Sansa admired the plush velvet gowns and sparkling jewels, but was uneasy about dressing herself in a dead woman's garb. Besides, her aunt had grown heavy in her later years so she doubted the gowns would even fit her.

Instead, she settled on a modest grey woolen dress that was delicately embroidered on the bodice with dark blue roses.  _Just like the winter roses in the glass garden at Winterfell…_  The dress was a bit too low cut for her liking and the fabric stretched tightly about her bust. She quickly washed her face and she stepped into her boots. She grabbed her brush and walked softly to stand in front of the mirror on the armoire door.

She admired herself while combing out her waist length hair, which would soon need to be dyed; hints of auburn were beginning to emerge within the deep brown locks. Her body had changed since leaving King's Landing. Her bust had become fuller and her hips curved in soft slopes from her small waist. She had grown taller too. The dress she wore when escaping King's Landing barely covered her ankles now. Her face had changed too. Instead of the full, bright cheeks of a young girl, her face had grown slim and high cheek bones emerged. Her lips that were once pouty had become almost sensuous. Her eyes sparkled a deep Tully blue, but no longer held the wistful dreams of a naïve young girl. Instead, there was a sadness to them, a sadness that mimicked the longing of home in her heart.

Sansa emerged from her bedchamber and quickly walked down the corridor towards Petyr's solar where she and Robert broke their fast. She had slept in longer than she intended. Surely, Petyr and Robert would be waiting for her and she didn't want to keep them waiting, not with Robert's shaking fits. They had been coming on easily as of late. As she approached the door to the solar, she heard her little cousin whining against Maester Colemon's pleading.

"My Lord, you must break your fast! The Lords Declarant will be here by afternoon and they will want to see their Lord!" exclaimed the Maester.

"I do not  _want_  to meet with them! Tell them to go away! Why are they even coming? I want my mother! I want my MOTHER." Sansa could hear Robert's fists pounding against the table. As she entered the solar, he hurled his bowl of porridge from the table, which missed the Maester's stunned faced by mere inches and crashed against the wall behind him.

Maester Colemon gave her an exasperated look and, with his chains softly rattling, shuffled towards Sansa. "I am at my wits end," he said in a hushed voice. "Please, my Lady, if you could try to settle him. Gods know we do not want the Lords Declarant to see him in one of his fits." Sansa nodded her head and gently took the Maester's hands into her own. "I will do the best I can, Maester. Perhaps we should send for something else to break his fast." The Maester quickly nodded his head in agreement, clearly thankful to be unburdened from the situation. "I will send to the kitchens for boiled eggs and fried black bread," the Maester sighed before taking his leave.

Sansa slowly padded over to where Robert sat with his arms tightly folded across his chest and a spoiled scowl on his face.

"My Sweetrobin! I am so very happy to see you this morning," she said, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Alayne, you  _must_  tell the Lords Declarant they cannot come today. Tell them I cannot see them. Tell them I don't want to see them!"

Sansa sighed and smiled sweetly. "My sweet little Lord, they have come very far just to see you, the brave Lord of the Vale that they serve. We mustn't turn them away. What might they think of us?"

"I don't care what they think of us! I  _hate_ porridge and I  _hate_  the Lords Declarant!"

The conversation was quickly becoming circular, Sansa realized. Luckily, before she could mutter a futile response to Robert, Littlefinger fluttered through the door. His blue-green doublet was elegantly embroidered with silver ivy leaves. His grey-brown beard and mustache neatly manicured.

"Ah, my sweetlings! There you are. I trust that last night's slumber was peaceful for you both and filled your heads with wonderful dreams." His smile was warm, but his green-grey eyes betrayed him. Sansa pondered whether or not he could know that her dreams tormented her for the past two weeks. She certainly hadn't told him. Something told her that he shouldn't have that knowledge so instead she flashed a bright smile at him and feigned agreement with his inquiry.

Petyr swept over to the head of the table, pulled out his chair, and sat with an irritated sigh. He lowered his eyes towards the silent Robert sitting adjacent to him. Robert feared Lord Baelish, Sansa knew, even before he had tearfully confessed it to Sansa one night while she read to him. She had tried her best to soothe his fears, but was alarmed that they both shared the same concerns. It seemed neither of them truly trusted Littlefinger, but could not quite puzzle out exactly why that was.

"Robert, my Lord, I happened upon a very distraught Maester Colemon on my way in here. Much to his chagrin, he had managed to get porridge on the back of his robe. Pray tell, how did our dear and faithful Maester manage such a task?"

"I do not want to meet with the Lords Declarant! The Maester cannot make me, but he will try. I told him I wouldn't! He would not listen to me! He must listen to me. And you! And Alayne! I  _command_ it!"

"I have heard enough. You may take your leave, my Lord. I will have your breakfast brought to your bedchamber. Your maids will help you bathe and dress. You will be summoned to meet the Lords Declarant once they arrive. All I request of you is to welcome them to the Eyrie upon their arrival. Do you think you can do that?"

Robert hung his head in defeat. Sansa eyed him apprehensively. She wished Petyr would speak more gently to Robert. True enough, the little Lord was spoiled and unpredictable. However, his situation was precarious and worsening daily since his mother had perished.

Much to her relief, Robert silently nodded acceptance at Littlefinger's request.

"Very well then. We shall feast in the High Hall this evening to welcome our Lords. Alayne, be a dear and bring our Sweetrobin back to his chambers then I must speak to you privily, my sweet." Sansa nodded her head and did as she was bid.

She returned back to the solar and took her seat at the opposite end of the table from Littlefinger.

"Alayne, being my daughter, you are a clever girl. Surely you understand why the Lords Declarant are paying us such an unexpected visit." He eyed her intently, eagerly awaiting her answer.

"Yes, my Lord father, I imagine I do. With Lady Lysa's death, they are surely concerned for their Lord of the Vale."

"Good, my sweet. And they surely are quite troubled by the events that have transpired here at the Eyrie. I would imagine they will have many and more questions surrounding what happened in the High Hall which led to the unfortunate demise of my beloved wife."

Sansa knew where this was going. She knew that when the Lords Declarant made their ascent up to the Eyrie, she would be required to maintain the lie that Littlefinger had weaved. The time was drawing near to relay how the events unfolded, just as Petyr had instructed her. He wanted to make sure she could do it; that she could tell this horrendous lie and tell it convincingly.

She cleared her throat and locked her gaze onto Littlefinger's eyes. "The Lady Lysa's death is a horrible tragedy. Marillion's true nature was apparent to all, but her. We all feared what he might do when it was apparent his infatuation was unrequited." Sansa stopped when a devious smile spread across Littlefinger's face.

"Alayne, my sweet daughter, you have the right of it. A terrible tragedy that I am truly sorry you had to witness. Surely, the Lords Declarant will see how much this has vexed you, as I do now. Now come give your father a kiss."

She shut her eyes slowly, breathed in deep, and pushed herself gracefully from the table. With trepidation, she reached his chair and bowed down to give him a quick peck on each cheek.

He smiled a coy smile. "How very…dutiful." When she turned to leave, he caught her by the wrist and pushed his mouth onto hers and held her there for what seemed like an eternity before finally letting her break away. "I will summon you when the Lords Declarant have arrived."

* * *

She had been at her needlework all morning after leaving Littlefinger's solar. She hadn't really any idea of what she was embroidering on the white cloth. Instead she just began her work and allowed her fingers to move automatically, without a plan for the outcome. She stopped when a gentle knock came at her door. As she bid the visitor to come in, she glanced down at the white cloth. The image that was taking shape looked alarmingly similar to the direwolf sigil of the House Stark. As Ser Lothor Brune opened the door, Sansa quickly took the white cloth and hid it behind her back.

Ser Lothor knew her identity and Littlefinger assured her that he could be trusted. She had come to trust Ser Lothor, but she didn't want to take any chances.

"My Lady, word has come that the Lords Declarant are making their ascent from Sky castle. They shall be arriving shortly. Your Lord father has requested your presence. I am to escort you."

"Thank you, Ser Lothor. Might I have a moment to prepare myself?"

The knight bowed slightly, "Take your time, my Lady. I will wait outside your chamber."

When he left, Sansa took the embroidered cloth and hid it beneath the blankets in the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed. She smoothed her skirts and retreated from her chamber.

She met Littlefinger in the High Hall and was surprised to see Sweetrobin in a light blue doublet with a cream colored crescent moon and falcon embroidered on it. She smiled to herself thinking of the fit he must have thrown when told he needed to dress up for the events of the evening.  _Those poor chamber maids…_

The Lords Declarant looked weary as they entered the High Hall. Sansa remembered how terrified she was when she took her ascent to the Eyrie.

There were six Lords Declarant in total and were accompanied by Ser Lyn Corbray whose comely face was spoiled by the perpetual scowl he wore. Sansa was surprised to find there was a Lady Declarant amongst them. The Lady Waynwood bowed gracefully as she approached, the vision of a true Lady, noble and refined. Sansa bowed her head and smiled politely as the others passed by.

The last of the Lord Declarants to approach her was an older man, with bushy white eyebrows framing grey eyes. Her breath caught in her chest and she quickly averted her eyes as he stopped in front of her.

A million thoughts fleeted through her head.  _He will know me. Oh gods, he was at the Tourney of the Hand. He even came north and stayed in Winterfell once!_

His stare felt as though it was burning through her and he did not remove his eyes from her.  _My face may make him suspicious, but my actions will surely betray my identity. I must look at him, greet him, and smile._ She met Ser Yohn Royce's eyes and gave him a courteous smile along with a curtsey.

He eyed her intently, sweeping his icy stare across her face with a furrowed brow. After pondering her for what felt like an eternity he finally spoke. "Do I know you, girl?"  
Sansa fought with everything she had not to throw herself at his feet and confess her true identity.

Before she could speak, Littlefinger had swiftly appeared at her side and flashed them both a warm smile. "My Lord, may I present to you my beloved daughter, Alayne Stone." Ser Yohn squinted his eyes at her once more before bowing his head slightly and taking her hand in his, he kissed it lightly. "I did not know you had a daughter, Lord Baelish. What a pleasant surprise." Ser Yohn smiled tensely, eyed her face once more, and walked past her.

_He knows who I am. He had been a friend of my father. If only I could tell him who I really am. He might take me from this place…either to somewhere safe or right into the grasp of Cersei._

* * *

The feast had been pleasant, but left her feeling uneasy. She had sat on the far end of the dais, but could hear Petyr chatting with the guests and sullenly accepting condolences from a few of the Lords Declarant, particularly Lady Waynwood.

The meal had been quite satisfying and to Sansa's liking; roast suckling pig with garlic and peach sauce, mashed turnips drowned in butter, salad greens with plump cherries and walnuts, and lemoncakes, which she woofed down eagerly.

Boredom had overcome the little Lord Robert early in the feast. He sat pushing his food around his plate with one hand while resting his head in the other. He let out loud sighs to communicate his displeasure. Eventually, Littlefinger let him take his leave.

Sansa would have happily taken her leave early too. On numerous occasions throughout the evening, she caught Lord Royce studying her intently. As soon as she would meet his eyes, he would look away and resume his conversation with Ser Lothor. That made her increasingly uneasy as well.  _What is Ser Lothor talking with him about? Is he revealing my identity?_

When the feast finally ended, she and Littlefinger bid the guests a pleasant evening of rest as they were ushered off to their quarters.

Once they were gone, Littlefinger turned to her and rested his hands on her waist. "What leaves you so distraught, my Sweetling?" His face was much too close to hers.

In a hushed voice she began, "Lord Royce was at the Tourney of the Hand. He came to Winterfell once. He knows who I am."

Littlefinger moved one hand from her waist to rest his palm on her cheek. "What Lord Yohn Royce recognizes is your beauty. My dear, you have naught to worry about. You were but a child last he saw you and even then I doubt he gave you even a passing glance. You are a woman now," his eyes swept from her face down her body, "you will do well to bear in mind that men will be looking at you from now on." With that he kissed her cheek softly and sauntered away.

She was happy to be back in her chamber, tucked tightly into her bed with the soft woolen blankets pulled up to her chin. She sighed deeply, but could not rid herself of the uneasiness she felt. She wanted to believe that Littlefinger was right and that Lord Royce had not recognized her as Sansa Stark. She wanted to believe everything Littlefinger had filled her head with, but somehow she just couldn't bring herself to do it. He lies too well, she knew. With that, her thoughts went immediately to the place she took refuge in when she felt unsafe.  _'A hound will die for you, but never lie to you' Where are you? I wanted so badly to open my eyes and see you standing before me, my protector…_

That night Sansa drifted into a peaceful sleep, brought on by the exhaustion of the day. She dreamt of Sandor and the night he came to her. She was singing sweetly and softly to him and not because he had forced her to give him a song, but because she had wanted to give him a song.


	3. Chapter 3

Even though his leg was giving him a bit of trouble this morning, Sandor felt as though his strength was finally returning to his body. The day had been much like every other day he had spent on the Quiet Isle. His shovel had worked at the earth, digging holes in the ground that would eventually become the resting place for one of the Brothers of the Isle. The sun was lowering in the sky and he felt the warmth against his back. A chilly breeze rustled over the hill as he pulled the hood of his robe up around his face.

He hadn't noticed them off in the distance and they seemed to appear out of nowhere. His focus was solely on his shovel and the earth and the methodical movements that would lull him into a daze. His attention on the task at hand was abruptly broken when the docile beast padded up to him jovially, panting and with his tail wagging. He couldn't help, but chuckle to himself.  _It appears I'm not the only hound who has sought refuge on the Quiet Isle…_

Sandor let the shovel fall from his hands and bent down to scratch the dog behind the ear, which the animal accepted eagerly. When the dog retreated, Sandor went back to work and tossed a shovel-full of dirt behind his left shoulder.

"Be more watchful there! Septon Meribald might have gotten a mouthful of dirt!" Sandor lifted his gaze slightly and noticed that Brother Narbert was accompanied by a group of four weary looking travelers. Sandor lowered his eyes and waited for them to pass before turning around to take a better look at them. The Quiet Isle sparingly received visitors unless they wished to brave the mudflats. Many did not bother to take that risk.

He gathered that Septon Meribald must be the tall, slightly hunched figure with a mass of grey hair on his head. The man was swathed in a faded robe and, to his surprise, was barefoot. Amongst the others, there were two men wearing mail and armor, probably knights, and a boy who was a squire, most like. One of the men was massive, almost as tall as Sandor, with straw-colored hair. The man must've felt his stare because he turned his head over his shoulder while walking away and looked squarely at Sandor.

_Bloody hell, that's a woman! What sort of woman dresses in a warrior's garb?_ Before finishing his thought, Sandor remembered.  _The Maid of Tarth. She was part of Renly's bloody rainbow guard._ Sandor snorted at the thought of being part of something called the Rainbow Guard.  _Sounds like something the Little Bird would dream up._

Sandor had heard the stories. Brienne of Tarth was supposedly taller than most men, uglier than almost every woman, and fancied herself a warrior. She was one of two people present when Renly Baratheon was murdered. The other was the Lady Catelyn Stark.

He remembered how Joffrey mocked and chided Sansa when he had heard the news emerging from Renly's encampment outside of Storm's End.  _'I see that traitor's blood runs thick through your veins. Your father was a traitor and so is your mother. If my own mother wasn't so insistent on keeping you around, I'd have half a mind to toss you aside for someone more worthy. My future sons deserve better than to have a treacherous slut as a mother.'_ The Little Bird had silently wept and Sandor was in a violent rage at seeing the tears stream down her perfect face.  _What I would've given to snap the little bastard's neck in that moment._

Brienne's eyes grew as wide as saucers at the sight of him and the young boy at her side turned his head towards Sandor to see what had captured the Maid of Tarth's attention. With timid eyes, the young boy apprehensively eyed Sandor and looked back at Brienne who in turn looked away from Sandor while whispering something to the boy. She grabbed the boy stiffly by the arm at which he immediately whipped his head back around in front of him.

Sandor recognized the boy immediately. He had deduced the woman was Brienne, but the young boy's face was one he knew without a doubt.  _Podrick Payne…The Imp's squire. What in seven hells are the Maid of Tarth and Podrick Payne doing on the Quiet Isle?_

Confused and curious by the pairing, Sandor turned to pick his shovel back up. He stood looking at the ground.  _The fucking bastard King is dead. Sansa was married off to the dwarf whose squire shows up here, of all places. Then there's the wench who, with Catelyn Stark, was present when Renly died._

Things were not adding up in Sandor's mind and he felt an unrest growing within the pit of his stomach. Sandor pushed the shovel into the ground and tossed the loosened earth behind him. He did this twice more before his mind returned to the Isle's visitors.  _Why the hell was the wench looking at me like that? And what did she say to the Payne boy?_

He shook his head and looked to the western horizon where the sun was retreating. Dark clouds were forming from the southeast and the wind was picking up, announcing the threat of an autumn storm. Sandor retreated back towards the cluster of buildings that made up the center of the Isle.

When he entered his chamber, he removed his robe and peeled off the sweat soaked tunic that clung to his body and tossed it over the wooden chair in the corner of the room. Pouring the contents of the water pitcher into his newly replaced washbowl, the Elder Brother's words rang in his hollow mind. They had struck a chord within him, causing a stirring that set his soul at unrest. It troubled him deeply and left him with an empty feeling inside.

One might say that the Hound had always been empty. To some extent, this was certainly true. The emptiness was a bottomless pit which greedily consumed all the hatred and violence he had tried to fill it with. Wine and whores had been the balm to his pain, but somehow they perpetuated the consuming emptiness. The wine succeeded only in gifting him once and awhile with dreamless sleep and the whores could barely hide their disgust when he would stumble into a brothel looking for an empty release. It was a reminder that not only would he never truly know a woman's love, he couldn't even pay for a whore to feign attraction to him.

That was the Hound's emptiness. Sandor Clegane's emptiness was dreadfully different and, in his opinion, far worse. The Hound's emptiness had been a burning fury. Sandor's emptiness was a terrible stillness, a longing for something that was never truly his. This emptiness ached from somewhere deep within, a slow and suffocating pain that shook him to his core. The Elder Brother had pleaded with him to leave the Hound's torment behind.  _This isn't the Hound's torment. This is something else. 'The Gods brought you forth again. Honor their gift by letting go of the past that tortures you.'_

_The Gods are cruel, if this is their gift. More like a bloody jape to me. I would've rather died that day on the Trident to become carrion for the crows._

Sandor's thoughts were jarred as he heard the Brothers shuffling along in the hallway outside his door. They were heading to sup in the central hall. Doubtless, the Elder Brother would share a meal with the Isle's guests in his private quarters. Despite the laborious task he had been set to that day, Sandor found that he was not hungry.  _Seven bloody hells, I need wine. A flagon of Dornish red would do just fine to wash away these fucking thoughts…_

But there wasn't any wine to drink, no more than there were whores to fuck or a battle to fight with men to kill.  _I need to get out of this room before I go mad within my own thoughts._

Sandor grabbed the sliver of soap that sat next to the wash bowl and dipped his hands into the water which was immediately filled with brown clouds of dirt. When he had washed his face, he pulled on a clean tunic and threw a cloak over his shoulders. He fell back to sit on the edge of the straw mattress of his bed. He closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes and breathing deeply.

The memories came back in flashes against the darkness that filled his vision. Slowly at first. He saw her there, serene and smiling, gorgeous in a blue dress that matched her sparkling eyes. Suddenly, the smile melted off of her face and distorted into a look of helplessness and terror.  _'So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head.'_ The sound of Joffrey's voice was a whisper in his memories compared to the desperate pleas of Sansa, begging for someone to stop him and spare the life of her father.

_I stood by. I did nothing._

He rubbed his eyes hard to drive away the guilt that was bubbling up within him, but it only succeeded in bringing on more memories. His mind flashed with Sansa in the throne room, Ser Meryn delivering a swift, hard punch with a mailed fist to her stomach. Her cries a deafening echo in his head as he remembered the way her body fell to the floor. The ripping of her gown, the grief-stricken sobs, the pain and desperation flooding her face. Sandor was helpless as the visions burned in his mind, seemingly seared to back of his eye lids, forever waiting for him whenever he closed his eyes.

_I stood by. I did nothing._

The memories flashed through his mind rapidly, one right after the other, faster and each one more heart-wrenching than the last until they all melted into one vision; Sansa red-eyed from unrelenting anguish, sobbing, pleading, grief-stricken, heart-broken, reaching out for help. Then her voice called out to him, crystalline in his mind.

_You stood by and watched. You did nothing._

His mind a blaze of memories, Sandor's heart pounded against his chest and he felt as though he was going to retch. He flew from his bed and bolted to the door of his chamber and out into the hallway.

He crashed through the outer doors and into the twilight stillness outside. The wind whipped up the back of his cloak, which snapped in return. He walked briskly against the wind. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. He needed to get away, he needed to think, he needed something to dull the unbidden grief that ached in his chest.  _Bloody hell_ , w _hat is happening to me?_

His legs carried him down a soft sloping hill towards the bay. His pace picked up against the unrelenting wind, his breathing came in deep heaving breaths. Somehow, without his consent, his legs began moving faster until he was running. Running towards what he didn't know. He reached the bottom of the slope and had come to stand in front of a cluster of trees with thickets of weeds and vines growing from underneath their canopy. With hands on the rough bark of a large trunk, he leaned his weight against the tree, panting and with his head racing.

He stood silently listening to the breath rasping from his chest. His head was pounding in time with the rhythm of his heart. For what seemed like an eternity, Sandor stood there and felt his breath becoming a slowing decrescendo within his chest. A sudden stillness washed over him. He relished the calm, fleeting as it was, before he felt it rising again. Not the rage of the Hound, but the torturous frustration and desperation of Sandor Clegane. As he became aware of that dull aching, it took form, surging up from the depths of his stomach and furiously escaped him as violent scream.

His rough and calloused hands formed into steel fists and flew through the air to come crashing into the trunk of the tree. Again and again his fists delivered a frenzy of violent blows to the tree trunk as his screams filled the twilight stillness in an effort to liberate the gnawing ache that had invaded his being. When he stopped, his hands were bloody and he was shaking. His chest was heaving as he gasped for air, choking as it filled his burning lungs. He slumped to the ground with his back to the tree and his bloody hands, still shaking, came to cradle his face. He sat for a long moment and then abruptly pushed himself to his feet.

He began retreating back towards the hill and noticed a small cluster of cottages that he hadn't seen before now. His legs began to carry him up the hill and started angling him slowly towards the cottages. The night was decidedly chilly as the winds that blew over the Bay of Crabs swept up the hill to embrace his form. He came within a few meters of one of the cottages, which were small, but appeared well kept. He remembered hearing the Elder Brother speak of the women's cottages which were rarely used and set aside for when a woman happened to come to the Isle.

Sandor's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of crunching leaves and breaking twigs and the fluttering of a small orange flame in the wind. Instinctively, Sandor darted behind the small cottage that was in front of him. He steadied his breath to listen. He heard soft talking and realized that the Elder Brother was escorting someone.  _Probably the wench. Although she passes herself off as a man, until she grows a cock the Elder Brother is not likely to let her take her rest amongst the other Brothers._

As the pair grew closer to where Sandor was concealing his form, he could begin to hear their conversation.

"I wonder my lady," the Elder Brother began, "what do you hope to find there?"

"A girl. A Highborn maid of three-and-ten, with a fair face and auburn hair," Brienne replied.

Instantly bewildered, Sandor's heart caught in his throat.  _Sansa. She's looking for Sansa._

The Elder Brother seemingly heard Sandor's thoughts. "Sansa Stark. You believe this poor child is with the Hound?"

Sweat was beading on Sandor's brow and his heart began to beat steadily against his chest. The thumping of his racing heart was so loud in his own ears that he had to strain to hear Brienne's response.

"The Dornishman said that she was on her way to Riverrun. Timeon. He was a sellsword, one of the Brave Companions, a killer and a raper and a liar, but I do not think he lied about this. He said that the Hound stole her and carried her away."

_Would that I could._ The gravity of Brienne's words settled within him, and temporarily quieted the ache that had consumed him moments earlier. Brienne looked like a man, but her voice betrayed her. She spoke with the softness and gentleness of a maid. His thoughts turned back to Sansa.

_Seven bloody hells! She's looking for Sansa, which can only mean the Little Bird is lost somewhere. Who the hell carried her off? Or did she willingly escape with some bloody knight?_ A pang of jealousy reverberated through him.

The Elder Brother and Brienne retreated within one of the small cottages.  _She thinks I stole the Little Bird. The fucking Dornishman was only half right. I took off with the other sister, the bloody she-wolf, who left me to die a slow death for killing some buggering butcher's boy._

Sandor's thoughts wandered back to earlier in the day when Brienne had noticed him studying her and her travel companions. She had looked like she saw a specter, her face turned the color of curdled milk and her eyes had grown so wide Sandor half expected them to roll right out of her head. Podrick had mimicked her reaction before she whispered something to him.  _She saw me. The bloody wench knows who I am._

Once he was sure the Elder Brother and Brienne were shut within the small cottage, Sandor carefully withdrew from his crouching position and stood on his feet. A sharp bolt of pain went through his injured leg as he stood. He winced silently and then slowly peered from behind the cottage.  _At least these piles of dirt they call cottages do not have windows._

Willing himself to be as silent as possible, Sandor put one foot in front of the other, while eying the ground in front of him as to not step on a branch which might rouse the Elder Brother's attention. Hushed voices permeated a small cottage about ten paces in front of him. Sandor cautiously closed the distance until his body came flush against the cottage wall. He could not make out the words that were being spoken so he inched his way towards the small door of the cottage.

As Sandor edged towards the door, he heard the Elder Brother relaying to Brienne how he came to the Quiet Isle. Sandor had heard bits and pieces of the story from the Elder Brother, but never in as much detail as he was telling Brienne. After the Elder Brother had finished, an awkward silence hung in the air. Sandor shifted silently, yearning to hear.

Finally, a soft response from Brienne met his ears. "I see."

"Do you? If so give up this quest of yours. The Hound is dead, and in any case he never had your Sansa Stark." The sound of her name filled his ears.  _Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark. Sansa fucking Stark._ Her name was his silent mantra. He relished the sound of it. He hadn't spoken her name out loud since coming to the Quiet Isle.

When Sandor's attention came back to the conversation, he could hear a soft weeping coming from the Maid of Tarth. Sandor shook his head.  _Women and their bloody crying…_

He heard Brienne sigh deeply before she continued in a lower voice, one much more composed. "I have to find her. There are others looking, all wanting to capture her and sell her to the queen. I have to find her first. I promised Jamie.  _Oathkeeper,_ he named his sword. I have to try to save her… or die in the attempt."

Sandor felt as though he was going to fall, he was sure his legs would give out from underneath him.  _Little bird is lost. I could have taken her with me and protected her. Instead she's gone, being hunted for some golden prize._

His blood boiled and he felt the heat move up his body and settle in his face. Sandor hadn't felt this kind of rage since coming to the Quiet Isle. The angry warmth felt familiar. He heard the Elder Brother push himself from the table so he quickly spun away from the door and retreated as quietly as possible towards the opposite side of the cottage. The Elder Brother emerged from the small cottage and walked with a deliberate pace against the rising wind towards the main cluster of buildings.

_She promised Jamie fucking Lannister that she would find Sansa. What in seven hells did the stupid wench think Jamie would want with the Little Bird? The bloody prick was the queen's own flesh and blood, for the Gods' sake._

As Sandor's head swam with the information he had just overheard, he stepped backwards away from the cottage and a large branch snapped underneath his weight. Within an instant, the door of the cottage flung open. Brienne emerged with sword in hand. Sandor became sorely aware that he was unarmed. She may be a woman, but she was armed while he was not.

Sandor willed his body to be as still as possible, but it was useless. He wasn't exactly an inconspicuous man and she had left him no time to retreat behind another cottage. Brienne's eyes swept through the darkness.

"Show yourself! I mean you no harm, but I bid you to show yourself to me!" She swung her extended sword from left to right, cutting through the darkness as if it contained an invisible enemy.

He knew she would eventually see him so he edged slowly out of the darkness towards the faint light that was spilling from the open cottage door.

" _Oathkeeper_. How did the bloody kingslayer come up with that gem?," Sandor realized it was not the best of ideas to mock someone with a sword, valyrian steel at that.

With a gasp, Brienne twirled around and faced Sandor with her sword extended. Sandor raised his hands up to show he was not armed. "Easy now. There's no honor in killing an unarmed man."

"What do you know of honor, Hound?" the wench bellowed back at him, seething as she said it.

Sandor chuckled, "More than your beloved kingslayer, that's for bloody sure. Don't fucking talk to me of honor, wench."

"Brienne! My name is Brienne. And you will mind your tongue, Hound. You were eavesdropping on my conversation with the Elder Brother."

"Aye, I was. When a man hears his name on the tongue of another, he's apt to stop and listen." Sandor slowly paced towards her, hands still up, as she lowered her sword slightly. The tension in the air faintly lifted.

"What would you want of me? I am here on purposes that do not concern you."

"Sansa. What do you know of Sansa?"

"She's a highborn maid, of three-and-ten, fair of face with aub-"

Sandor snorted his annoyance, "You think these are things I don't already know, wench?!" His voice boomed out of his chest as he slowly started towards her again, undaunted by the fear that flooded her eyes. He softened his voice a little before continuing in a low rasp.

"Indeed she's a highborn, more times than I care to count I heard her peeping her pretty little courtesies some septa taught her. Fair of face, I've seen my share of women with fair faces. I've fucked a few, for that matter. I looked on as that prick of a king plucked off her father's head. I looked on as those noble fucking knights beat Sansa bloody. Petrified and grief-stricken as she was, she was always beautiful. 'Fair of face' doesn't nearly do her justice."

Brienne's mouth was gaped open and she was silently shaking her head. She spoke with disbelief.

"They beat her. And you watched. You stood by and watched as a helpless girl was being beaten. You are no better than they are."

Sandor flew at her in a blind rage. He didn't care she had a sword and he had nothing. She stumbled backwards and fell hard into the wall of the cottage. His hands still bloody, came up to her throat and squeezed hard. Brienne's eyes were deep blue sapphires and were filling with tears. Sandor stared into them for a moment before his hands started to tremble.  _She's afraid. The wench is afraid. She thinks I'm going to kill her._

A strange sense of guilt began to rise in him. As he released his grasp on Brienne's throat, she fell to the ground gasping for air and desperately struggling to find the hilt of the sword she had dropped at his feet.

He retreated away from her. "Aye, I am no better. I could've stopped them. I tried, but not hard enough. I wanted to take her. The night of the Battle of the Blackwater. I went to her and wanted to take her away from King's Landing, away from Joffrey and Cersei, away from all the bloody bastards who had hurt her." His voice trailed off while another wave of guilt washed over him. It hit him like a sack of bricks.

Brienne slowly regained her feet and sheathed her sword. Silence filled the air as she caught her breath.

"Sansa Stark disappeared the night of Joffrey's wedding. Ser Dontos Hollard disappeared that night as well. It is thought that they escaped together." A solemn, pained look flashed across Brienne's face. "Jamie Lannister swore an oath to Catelyn Stark when she released him."

Sandor snorted his contempt at that before allowing her to continue.

"I pledged my sword to the Lady Stark. I swore an oath as well. I was to return Jamie Lannister in return for the Lady Stark's daughters. I did not know that Arya had been missing since her father's execution. I had feared her dead until the Elder Brother told me that you had come upon her and taken her. Sansa disappeared from King's Landing before I returned Jamie there. He swore an oath to Catelyn Stark he meant to keep. He gave me his sword and all the resources I would need and told me to find Lady Sansa. I have been looking for her ever since. I came upon Podrick Payne who had been looking for Sansa too."

"Why the hell would the Payne boy be looking for Sansa?"

"Podrick was looking for Sansa in hopes that she knew the whereabouts of Tyrion Lannister."

Another long silence filled the air before Brienne began again in a tone barely above a whisper.

"I cannot fail her. I cannot fail Lady Stark or her daughters."

When she gave pause again, Sandor realized tears were spilling from her eyes. He always felt uncomfortable when women cried.  _Bloody hell._

"She's not with that bloody fool, Ser Dontos, I can tell you that right now. The bastard would have turned Sansa over to the queen quick as he could." As Sandor pondered the situation, he realized the severity.  _Fucking hells,_  s _he could be with anyone. She could be alone, for all I know, no one to keep her safe._

A frenzy swept through him. He hadn't noticed that he was pacing frantically in front of where Brienne stood. The wench shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other before looking at him apprehensively.

"You abandoned the fighting the night Stannis tried to sack King's Landing, but you went back for her. You could've left to ensure your own safety. You went back for her instead. If you had been caught, they would have had your head. Still you went back for her."

Sandor stopped midstride and turned his head to meet Brienne's tearful gaze.

"Aye. I went back for her. I told her I would protect her. I told her I would keep her safe. I told her that no one would ever hurt her again and if they tried, I would kill them. And I bloody well meant it."

Brienne nodded slowly and closed her eyes. She sighed, opened her eyes, and softly spoke.

"You cared for her."

"Aye, I cared for her."  _I still do. I told her no one would ever hurt her again. And now she's lost. Brienne of fucking Tarth and Jamie Lannister may have given their word to Catelyn Stark. But I gave my word to Sansa Stark. And I bloody well mean to keep it…_

Without another word, Sandor left Brienne, standing outside the small cottage, tears in her eyes and a dumbfounded look on her face. The frenzy within settled into a solid resolve which propelled his legs towards the stable where he knew Stranger would be waiting.  _My horse, my sword, my armor, food. I will figure the rest out as I go._

With the aching within beginning to subside ever so slightly, Sandor felt more alive than he had since coming to the Quiet Isle. Something had awoken within him, a spark that illuminated the silent darkness that had burdened him for so long.

_I'm coming, Little Bird. I'm coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Septon Narbert's one and only line is a quote from "A Feast for Crows."
> 
> As always, please review for it is most helpful and encouraging.


	4. Chapter 4

Lothor Brune lightly rapped at the door of her bed chamber as dawn came tumbling over the horizon. Sansa had already been awake when he came, quietly anticipating the morning while embraced by the warmth of her bed. Small, meandering snowflakes shimmered as the sun broke over the mountains, painting the ragged landscape in hues of blue and green. She dressed quickly in the dimness of her chamber and took deep breaths to calm her nerves.  _Gods, what if they don't believe me? What if they know that I am lying?_

Suddenly, his face flashed in her mind, the twisted mass of his scars slick and crimson red, his rough mouth twitching slightly, his eyes white with rage. ' _Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know.'_ His words resonated through her worried mind and she knew that they were true, at least when she was in King's Landing.  _But what about now? My entire identity is fabricated. Surely, I must be better at lying now than I was then. Besides, none of the Lords Declarant, to my knowledge, are dogs._

A thin smile spread about her lips before becoming suddenly aware of the pang of bittersweet sadness swelling within her.  _If only he were here. He would know the truth, he would know that I am not Alayne Stone, but Sansa Stark. But would he truly know me? The Sansa he knew was childish and naïve, a head filled with songs and a heart filled with silly little dreams of knights and fair maidens, flowers and dancing, feasts and tourneys._

The thought deeply disturbed Sansa. Sometimes she would stare at herself in the mirror, running her fingers through her dark hair, studying her own face and features trying to find where Sansa Stark ended and Alayne Stone began. She felt as though her identity was somewhere in between; neither the wide-eyed child that was Sansa Stark nor the world-wary woman that was Alayne Stone.  _I have never felt as lost as I do now._

Sansa stared out the small, thickly paned window of her chamber as the snowflakes whirled by like tiny dancers pirouetting about one another. The Eyrie was truly breath taking. Had she come under happier circumstances, she would have drunk in its beauty through misty eyes while daydreaming about being a damsel in the Maiden's Tower, waiting for some gallant knight to rescue her. Suddenly, the room seemed darker to her and colder too.  _I am no true damsel and there are no true knights looking for me. I am a prisoner here. No one is coming for me._

Her thoughts were dashed as she heard Ser Lothor again knocking at her door, this time more persistent. "My Lady, before long the Lords Declarant will be gathering in the High Hall. If it please my lady, we must make haste." At that, Sansa crossed the room and stepped out into the corridor.

"I beg pardon, ser. I apologize for keeping you." Ser Lothor gently took her arm in his and escorted her to the High Hall. There was a calm assuredness about Ser Lothor that Sansa admired. He faintly reminded her of Jory Cassel, captain of her father's guards at Winterfell. All of the men in her father's service were deeply loyal, strong and sincere, a reflection of the man that was Lord Eddard Stark. The thought made Sansa smile as she inclined her head to look up at Ser Lothor.

"What is it, my Lady?" he inquired, smiling back at her, eager to be let in on some imagined jape.

Still smiling, she shook her head, and gently squeezed his forearm with her hand. "Nothing, ser. It's nothing."

* * *

The Lords Declarant had been discussing the details surrounding Lysa Arryn's death for the greater part of the morning. Mostly they had argued amongst themselves, their disaccord clearly a delight to Petyr who looked on with amusement gleaming in his eyes. The conversation came to a lull as the kitchen servants fluttered into the High Hall to serve them their breakfast. Sansa had hoped for some reprieve from the unrelenting stare of Lord Yohn Royce.

Littlefinger seemingly read her thoughts, as he often did. Truly, he was gifted at puzzling out the intentions of others regardless of how elaborate the guise. "My Lords and Lady, let us enjoy a meal together. Shall we put aside our morbid discussion for something a bit more uplifting? I've heard that Lollys Stokeworth has finally taken a husband. I should imagine Lady Tanda is beside herself with joy."

Lord Gilwood Hunter shifted in his seat, obviously perturbed. "Lord Baelish, we did not make the perilous journey to this Gods forsaken place to gossip over our tea cups and honey cakes like giggling maidens. You must take us for fools, Littlefinger, if you mean to distract us with your pleasantries. Now, if it please my Lords, let us get on with it!"

The others who made up the Lords Declarant quietly nodded their agreement at his suggestion to forgo any further banter and continue discussing the issues at hand.

Petyr remained quiet, the amusement retreating from his eyes, before lifting his head to meet the impatient stare of Lord Hunter. "Forgive me, my Lords, if my jest has given offense. My late wife's death has left me bereft, to say the least." Seemingly appeased for the moment, Lord Hunter settled in his seat, resting his chin on steepled fingers. Sansa let out an internal sigh of relief when Petyr started in somberly relaying the events that had taken place in the High Hall the day that her Aunt had taken her tumble out the Moon Door. Lady Waynwood looked on dubiously as Littlefinger, through tearful eyes and clenched jaw, told of his anguish at finally having been able to wed his childhood sweetheart, only to have her ripped away from him so soon.

_Liar. It was my mother's name on your lips when you pushed Lysa Arryn out of the Moon Door._

A wave of heat burned on Sansa's face as anger flared within her. She pondered the feeling. She had always been meek, soft-spoken, shy even. At Winterfell, Arya had made a game of trying to find little ways to annoy her; flinging food at her from across the supper table while their mother and father were occupied, hiding her silken hair ribbons in obscure places throughout the Great Keep, mocking her as she practiced the songs Septa Mordane taught them while diligently doing her needlework. Even then, she never truly became angry. Instead, tears would fill her eyes and spill over her cheeks, warm and salty, and she would cry into her pillow as her mother softly hushed her while gently stroking her hair.

The feeling bubbling from within was different. She found that no tears threatened to spill forth from her eyes, but instead her hands were balled into fists, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm.  _I could strike him. My family is gone, scattered in the winds, dust in the ground, and he dare speak of anguish._

"Was this the way of it, child?" Sansa's anger escaped her suddenly as Lord Horton Redfort turned to her, his voice quietly reassuring. She swept her eyes over the faces of the Lords Declarant, all of them staring at her blankly, but eagerly awaiting her reply.

"Yes, my Lord. My father speaks truly. I saw it all with mine own eyes." She let her gaze retreat to the floor, lest her eyes betray her. She worked intently at steadying her breath.  _'They're all liars here… and every one better than you.' Oh gods, I hope they believe me._

A brief silence blanketed the group before Lord Belmore cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice booming off the High Hall walls, the irritation thick in his voice.

"Well then, it appears we all concur that the Lady Lysa's death was a terrible tragedy. That is hardly the reason we have made our journey here. Lord Baelish, if you would be so kind, the Lords Declarant will require some time to discuss these matters amongst ourselves."

Petyr flashed a tense, forlorn smile, one that feigned compliance. He quietly rose from his seat. "Of course, my Lords. Take as much time as you require. My daughter and I will leave you to your matters." With that, Petyr gave a slight bow before spinning on his heel and taking Sansa lightly by her arm. "Come, my sweet."

Once safely in the corridor outside of the High Hall, she let relief wash over her, relishing it as it came and letting the tension melt from her body.  _Gods be good, they believed me. They believed everything._

Despite the long-awaited relief from the unrest she had felt in the High Hall, something troubling was starting to gnaw at her, an uneasiness that settled at the pit of her stomach.

Once at the end of the corridor from the High Hall, Littlefinger abruptly stopped and turned to face her directly, cupping her cheeks in the palm of his hands. "We have not yet heard the end of this, Sweetling, surely you must know that. They have not come here, these Lords Declarant, to investigate the nature of my sweet wife's death. Marillion's last song was a confession. There was little and less to discuss where that was concerned."

With a furrowed brow, Sansa nodded her head slightly.  _I could have guessed as much. Where else would this feeling of dread be coming from?_

Littlefinger inclined her chin lightly with the tips of his fingers so that her eyes met his. "It seems the common belief amongst our visitors is that I have no claim over my role as Lord Protector of the Vale despite Lysa Arryn's written declaration stating as much. Surely, they will demand our Sweetrobin as a ward. Undoubtedly, one of these Lords will want to raise him up to be a brave knight, one befitting of songs and stories."

_Sweetrobin as a knight. He loves the knights in the story books, almost as much as I used to._ The thought may have made Sansa smile, if the feeling of foreboding hadn't been so suffocating. It hung thick in the air between her and Littlefinger, stifling her breath and causing her stomach to turn.

"What will you do?," she inquired softly and lowering his eyes, her voice sounding tremulous in her own ears.

Littlefinger chuckled and pulled hard on her chin so that her lips crushed into his, holding her there for a long moment before letting her squirm away. "Such an inquisitive mind! You shall find out soon enough. Now be a sweet and prepare my solar for the Lords Declarant. You will escort them there once they have finished discussing these private matters of theirs." His eyes were gleaming pools of guile.

She liked it not.

* * *

The Lords Declarant deliberated for two hours after which Sansa led them to Petyr's solar, as instructed. They walked wordlessly down the corridor, the journey agonizingly awkward. Her instincts were compelling her to fill the silence with courteous conversation, perhaps a discussion of the morning's snow shower which had dusted the Eyrie in wisps of sparkling snowflakes. Before she could gather a handful of polite words, an acute perceptiveness beseeched her to remain reticent to which she complied. When they reached Petyr's solar, she knocked lightly before opening the door and hesitantly peering her head in. Petyr was seemingly unaware of her presence as he studied a parchment of paper in earnest. Finally, he sighed deeply before placing the parchment on the table at which he was seated. He smiled at her calmly and spoke softly.

"Alayne, my sweet daughter, please see the Lords Declarant in." He sat back in his chair as the guests filed into the solar and one-by-one took their seats at the table. Once they were all seated, Sansa turned towards the door to take her leave, but was interrupted by Littlefinger's voice as she reached for the door handle.

"Alayne, be so kind as to pour our guests some wine." Sansa was bewildered as she turned around slowly. Littlefinger nodded his head towards a ceramic flagon placed on a small table adjacent to the door of the solar.  _Why would he want me to stay?_

Sansa methodically made her way around the table, willing herself to remain as discreet as possible while reaching between the Lords Declarant to retrieve their cups from the table. She had been invisible to them with the exception of Ser Lyn Corbray. He was a handsome man, tall and lithe, but something about his frigid stare filled her with dread, so much so her hands began to tremble slightly as she poured wine into his glass. A thin stream of arbor gold missed his cup and began spilling freely onto the table next to his goblet. While he did not speak in protest, a subtle sneering smile flickered about his lips.  _He's enjoying this._

The Hound had once frightened Sansa as well and he too seemed to take a strange sort of pleasure in the fear he elicited from her. However, she never truly believed that the Hound would ever harm her. However, Sansa was quite certain Ser Lyn was a dangerous man who would hurt her, if given the chance.

None of the Lords Declarant seemed particularly interested in their wine, save Lord Hunter who greedily emptied the contents of his cup multiple times before placing it empty on the table in front of him. His eyes were hooded with drunkenness and he swayed ever so slightly in his seat. Sansa retreated to the corner of the room and curled up quietly on a chair of velvet, her fatigue beginning to sweep over her.

She had been half listening as Petyr placated to the concerns of the Lords Declarant, and feigned a common interest in the well-being of the Vale. As Littlefinger had predicted, the conversation centered on removing Robert from the Vale and into the custody of Lord Royce.

In an effort to stave off sleep, Sansa began observing the Lords Declarant sitting around the table. They seemed somewhat apathetic to the direction the conversation had led them in; Lord Hunter in a drunken daze, Lord Belmore silently picking fuzz from his purple and grey doublet, and Lady Waynwood looking on politely with a glazed and bored stare. It seemed to Sansa that Lord Yohn Royce was the only one zealously involved in the conversation.

Sansa's eyes cautiously wandered over to where Ser Lyn was sitting. He had remained silent for much of the evening, but something about the intensity of his stare told Sansa that he was intently listening to the conversation. Suddenly, he turned to face her, his eyes hostile and calculating and the same sneering smile on his face. Sansa froze and swallowed hard before lowering her head.

Lord Royce was struggling to control his agitation. His face was turning a shade of crimson and his fists pounded the table in frustration. "We  _shall_ have Lord Robert!" Littlefinger sighed in exasperation and shook his head. Suddenly, Sansa saw Ser Lyn shift abruptly in his chair.

"All this talk makes me ill. Littlefinger will talk you out of your smallclothes if you listen long enough. The only way to settle his sort is with steel." At that, he pushed himself from his seat and unsheathed his sword in one swift motion, a blur of steel grey rippling in the candlelight. Sansa hadn't noticed Lothor Brune standing in the opposite corner of the room until he suddenly dodged forward with his own sword in his hand, steadily eying Ser Lyn.

Littlefinger flashed a delighted smile as a cacophony erupted from the Lords Declarant who all at once began to plead with Ser Lyn to put up his sword.

Lord Royce furiously flew from his chair. "Put up your steel, ser! Are you a Corbray or a Frey? We are guests here!"

At this, Ser Lyn laughed manically, but complied nonetheless and sheathed his sword. "Lords Declarant. You should have named yourselves the Six Old Women," he snickered at his own words before striding out of the room. His pace slowed as he passed Sansa, flashing her an icy glare which chilled her to the bone.

Ser Lyn's outburst had apparently shamed the Lords Declarant who decided to grant Petyr a year to sort out the ramifications of the Vale's misrule under Lysa Arryn. After an uncomfortable silence, Lord Royce shifted in his seat and resumed the conversation.

"It's all, but settled then. A year you will have. You would do well to make the most of that time, Lord Baelish," he warned through clenched teeth and furrowed brow. "As Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident, I should think you would have a vested interest in the carnage that has ensued in the Riverlands. Outlaws have all but besieged both sides of the Trident. Should they meander their way to the Bloody Gate, you had best have means of dealing with them."

Petyr scoffed at that. "Should they survive the mountain clans and shadow cats on the way to the Bloody Gate, they will sooner be patted on the back than put to the sword." His facetiousness did little to quell Lord Royce's visible irritation. Sansa's mind had begun to wander once more until she saw Lord Hunter hold his cup out for more wine, at which she rose to oblige his request. As she retreated slowly back to the comfort of the velvet chair, Lord Royce began again.

"Lest you have forgotten, the Saltpans have been savagely raided by the Hound and his band of outlaws. The town was put to the torch; men, women, and children alike slaughtered like sows. We have heard reports that the Hound himself raped a girl of two-and-ten before viciously killing a dozen men."

Sansa stopped in mid stride. Her heart pounded against her chest and her blood ran cold, followed by an instantaneous burning in her stomach. Her hands shook violently and the flagon of wine slipped through her trembling fingers, falling to the floor and shattering to pieces with a resounding crash. Silence descended upon the room as the Lords Declarant snapped their heads around in unison to look upon her, their mouths gaping and confusion spilling across their faces.

_No. Gods no, he would never do something like that. He couldn't have._

Sansa held her breath to steady her heaving chest. When she finally spoke, her voice was ragged and breathy. "I beg pardon, my Lords." Petyr's glare bore into her like valyrian steel. She dare not meet his eyes.

"You have scared the poor child, Lord Royce!" scolded Lady Waynwood, "My Lords, I believe we have reached an agreement, albeit less than ideal. Lord Royce, if you wish to discuss the matters of the Riverlands further, perhaps you should do this privily with Lord Baelish." Lady Waynwood shot a fleeting glance at Sansa. "I believe it is past time we conclude this parley."

The Lords Declarant nodded in agreement. One by one, they each pushed themselves from the table and quietly retreated from the solar. Petyr bid them farewell as they left, politely smiling and wishing them a night of peaceful rest. As the last Lord Declarant left, Petyr gently shut the door and turned to where Sansa was kneeling, gathering up pieces of shattered flagon in her hands and collecting them in the folds of her skirt. The smile had all but melted from his face.

Petyr snatched her wrist in his hand, squeezing so hard that she squealed in pain. He yanked her from the floor, flinging her violently into the wall behind them. His hands flew to her shoulders and pinned her to the wall with a force surprising for a man his size.

"What sort of folly was that?" His grey-green eyes were a burning rage, his breath hissing out of his lungs.

Her hands fell to her side, pieces of the flagon raining upon the floor below. "The Hound did not do those things. He wouldn't…I mean, he watched over me in King's Landing, he was different."

Petyr swiftly swung one of his hands from her shoulder. The open palm of his hand landed heavily across her right cheek, leaving a wave of stinging pain in its wake. She gasped at the pain before his hands wrapped around her throat, his face close enough she could smell the stench of wine and mint mingling on his breath.

"And just what exactly do you think you know of Sandor Clegane?" He squeezed her throat and pressed the weight of his body against hers, pinning her helplessly against the wall.

The memories of her beatings at King's Landing flooded her mind; the memories of all those gallant knights snickering at the sight of Ser Meryn or some other knight of the Kingsguard delivering blow after blow, but unwilling to come to her aid.  _Knights are supposed to protect the weak. Either they were no true knights or I am not as weak as I once thought._ And then she remembered; his voice was a low rasp, akin to the growl of a dog.  _'Enough.' He had tried to stop it. He was the only one who tried to protect me._

Suddenly, the courage she had lacked in King's Landing erupted from within her and exploded forth. One large shard of the flagon remained in her hand. Sansa swung the shard up to meet the soft flesh of Littlefinger's cheek. She plunged the shard as deep as she could, slashing downwards to rip open his flesh which spilled red rubies of blood. With a shriek, he released the tight grip on her neck and brought his hands to the bloody gash on his face, stumbling away from her in disbelief.

Sansa gasped for air. "What I know of Sandor Clegane is that he never, not once, raised a hand against me." She was seething, a red rage filling her being.

_Arya is not the only Stark with a bit of wolf in her…_

A sinister laugh erupted from Littlefinger's throat, a laugh which matched the hysteria in his eyes. His teeth were stained with blood as it poured into his mouth from his gaping wound. Slowly, he paced towards her and grabbed her by her elbow, wrenching it firmly so that she could not move. He pushed his face towards her until his lips barely brushed her ear, blood dripping onto the hair covering her shoulder, his voice was just barely above a whisper.

"And since you know your dear Hound so well, indulge me in this, Sweetling. Did you know that Sandor Clegane only fucked red-headed whores since the day you arrived in King's Landing? It seems he fancied you too and given time, I'm sure he would've had you, just as he had that poor girl in the Saltpans; slipping into your bed one night while you were dreaming sweetly, ripe for the taking. He would have fucked you bloody and left you a ruin. No one wants a dog's leftovers, but he would have done it anyway. So tell me truly, Sansa, how much do you  _really_  know of your precious Hound?"

Sansa was aghast not only at the hateful words pouring from Littlefinger's bloodied mouth, but also at the way his cunning grey-green eyes darkened to a shade black as midnight, gleaming like obsidian jewels. She had finally worked her way free of his grasp. She rubbed her elbow, wincing at the pain while eying him intently. Her eyes darted about the room, seeking the most efficient means of escape.  _I can't be more than three paces from the door._ She bit her lip while desperately strategizing how to close the distance to the door and her escape.

Petyr pulled a handkerchief from his doublet and carefully patted the blood away from his cheek, pulling the fabric away periodically to study it deliberately as if somehow trying to assess the damage that had been done to his face. He seemed preoccupied as Sansa began taking small steps backwards towards the door. He muttered curses under his breath before scowling at her.

"You're as wild as your sister. No matter, she is dead, most like, rotting somewhere. Your mother would be none too proud of what her sweet daughter has become. Oh, but I forget myself again. She is dead too. And to think that I had arranged your marriage to the future Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale. The Young Falcon shall be most disappointed when I recant my offer, to be sure, but perhaps this is for the best."

Something inside of Sansa was screaming for her to propel herself forward and savage the other side of Littlefinger's face, but her legs refused to comply.  _He wants me to come after him. He wants me to fall prey to some sort of trap._

She had heard of the Young Falcon, Harrold Hardyng. Sweetrobin had regaled her with stories of the Young Falcon's heroics and gallantry before proudly declaring that he, Robert Arryn, shall be the next Young Falcon. Later, Sansa had inquired about the Young Falcon with Lothor Brune. The older knight sang a different song when it came to Harry the Heir. It was widely believed that even though Ser Harrold was hardly older than Sansa, he had already fathered a bastard child.  _'There are no true knights, no more than there are gods.'_ _No true knights, indeed._ Sansa was now beginning to understand Lord Royce's fervor at dismissing Littlefinger as Lord Protector of the Vale and his adamancy at removing Sweetrobin from Petyr's custody. She gathered her thoughts and began hesitantly, still taking small steps backwards to the door behind her.

"Robert Arryn will be the Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the vale when he comes of age."

"Robert Arryn is a sickly boy, you know as well as I. Should something…unfortunate happen to our Sweetrobin the Young Falcon will inherit the Eyrie and the Vale." The calculating smile that descended upon Littlefinger's blood-stained lips was identical to the one that had graced his face while pushing Lysa out of the Moon Door. Sansa knew instantly what he was implying.

She shook her head in disbelief. "You're a monster." The words escaped her body as a breathless whisper.

"No more than your precious protector, the Hound," he replied mockingly, derision gleaming in his eyes before snapping at her, "Now get out, you little fool."

* * *

Sansa burst through the door of Littlefinger's solar and sprinted down the corridor as fast as her legs could carry her. The sound of her heels hitting the stone ground was a whisper in her ear against the deafening beating of her own heart. When she reached the heavy doors leading to the garden of the Eyrie, she stopped and doubled over, gasping to catch her breath. Her legs melted underneath her and she collapsed on the floor, her skirts pooling around her. The droplets of Littlefinger's blood had dried in her hair and flaked off as she smoothed the tresses from her face.  _Gods, I hit him. I left him there with his face a mess of blood and flesh._

Her eyes burned and she was certain that she might begin to cry. For long moments, she sat at the foot of the door to the garden, patiently awaiting the flow of tears; tears of frustration, tears of despair. However, the tears never came and instead she sat in silence, a queer beacon of clarity illuminating her mind. Sansa slowly pushed herself up to stand and sighed deeply before starting down the corridor, back towards her bed chamber. She hadn't taken more than four steps down the corridor before she stopped abruptly, willing herself to remain as still as possible.

From somewhere within her, she felt a gentle tugging as if something was beckoning her to the garden of the Eyrie. Sansa had only been in the garden once.  _Littlefinger kissed me in the garden while Lysa looked on. And then he pushed her from the Moon Door._ Since that fateful day, Sansa had not returned to the garden, not even when Sweetrobin had pleaded with her to play come-into-my-castle with him one unseasonably warm autumn day.

The transcendent pull in the direction of the garden was as perplexing as it was powerful, as if the heavens above where speaking through her. Slowly, she obeyed, turning around and beginning towards door of the garden.

As she pushed out into the stillness of night, large glistening snowflakes were coming down steadily to blanket the ground in thick layers whilst catching on her eyelashes and dancing amongst strands of her hair. The tingle of snow melting upon her face conjured up warm memories of Winterfell. She lifted her eyes to the stars above and saw amongst them a horned moon hanging low in the sky.  _The Warrior's moon._ Sansa watched as the moon was besieged by a cluster of dark clouds which extinguished the silvery luminescence and left the garden bathed in transient shadows.

She scanned the gardens, drinking in the solace she found there. Tall sentinels dotted the edges with patches of Moonbloom enveloping the area underneath, filling the air with their fragrant sweetness. Enchanting as it was, Sansa found that she yearned for the Godswood of Winterfell and would have given much and more to sit beneath the massive weirwood, gazing into the still pool of black water that gathered beneath it. As a child the weeping, red-eyed weirwood had frightened her and she had preferred her mother's gods, the Seven.

In King's Landing, prayers to the Seven were never far from her lips. One by one, she prayed to each of the Gods. When it would seem that her prayers went unanswered by one God, she would pray to the next. On it went, day after day, a cycle of pleading to the heavens for some reprieve. She had even incorporated the Stranger, the only God she truly feared. She had told herself that surely between seven Gods, one would have to hear her desperate pleas. The answers to her prayers never came.  _'There are no true knights, no more than there are gods.'_   _The gods have all but forgotten me, it would seem._

She contemplated the old gods, the ones her father prayed to. Many nights Lord Eddard Stark retreated to the Godswood and sat silently beneath the expansive weirwood. For long hours he would pray to the Gods that remained nameless. Those Gods had seemed strange to Sansa, some unknowable and unreachable divinity.

_Perhaps those Gods will hear my prayers, whoever they might be._ Sansa swept her eyes about the garden, already knowing she would find no weirwood, but looked anyway.  _This is a godless place._

Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't seen him sitting in the corner of the garden, hidden from the moonlight that had vanquished the clouds to once again kiss the garden in its celestial splendor.

From behind her, a voice rung through the thin, autumn air, clear as a bell. "Sansa Stark."

Sansa stifled a scream and spun herself around, almost tumbling to the ground as her feet slipped out from underneath her. Her eyes darted about the garden before she spied Lord Yohn Royce's hulking silhouette, sitting on a stone bench in the most inconspicuous corner. He rose delicately to his feet, as if afraid she might flee from him like some frightened animal. "I mean you no harm, child."

Her breath began to steady again before the fear filled her being.  _He knows who I am. He will take me back to King's Landing and Cersei will have my head._

"My L-l-lord…I didn't see you. You have mistaken me for someone else, I fear." Her voice was quivering. She had imagined how fearless Arya might sound in this moment and tried her best to emulate that. Somehow she sounded like a frightened child, meek and helpless.

Sensing her trepidation, Lord Royce took slow, deliberate steps towards her and reached his hand out to reach hers. "My child, if I wanted to steal you off to King's Landing back to Cersei Lannister, I could have done so already. I assure you that was never my intention."

_Of course he knows who I am. How could he not? It was foolish to think otherwise._ Sansa breathed in deep and poised herself to finally meet Lord Royce's eyes, something she hadn't been able to do since he arrived at the Eyrie.

"How did you know, my Lord?"

Lord Royce slowly traversed the remaining distance between them, the blanket of snow crackling under his feet, and came to stand in front of her. Gently, he brushed her chin with the tips of his fingers, inclining her head up to meet his stare. "You look so much like your mother, Sansa." He smiled down at her and for a moment he almost sounded like her father. "I had my doubts. Lothor Brune all, but gave it away when I began asking him questions about you, the mysterious Alayne Stone, natural daughter of Petyr Baelish. He regurgitated the lies Littlefinger had fed him, but the man is inept at lying, it seems. Please, come sit."

He pulled her gently down to sit beside him on a stone bench, dusted in snow, which gradually melted into cold pools and saturated the bottom of Sansa's dress. Lord Royce remained quiet for some time, a ponderous expression cast about his face.

"The War of the Five Kings, they're calling it," he started, quietly contemplating the name with a far-off stare glazing his eyes. "More like the War of Three Kings. Joffrey was no more Baratheon than I am, that was plain to see. And Balon Greyjoy was an old fool to think that he could liberate the Iron Islands from the clutches of Tywin Lannister." Lord Royce shook his head and furrowed his brow before beginning again.

"No, the War of Three Kings is more fitting. The other three self-styled kings had the only legitimate causes, each different from the others. Stannis felt that duty was the force beckoning him to the Iron Throne. Renly desired glory, beloved as he was by the highborn fools that flocked to him. And then there was your brother, the Young Wolf. He wanted vengeance for your father and to rule the north as the Starks once did in days of old as Kings of Winter, Kings of the North."

A somber smile began to form about Sansa's lips.  _House Stark, almost as old as time itself. We once ruled as Kings of Winter. And now we are scattered in the winds, lost and broken._

Tears began to fall from Sansa's eyes in plump drops that patted the ground softly, melting the snow where they landed. Wordlessly, Lord Royce offered Sansa a small white cloth. She accepted it and delicately patted the tears away from her cheeks.

"Duty, glory, and vengeance, all appealing in their own right, but vengeance was the only worthy cause. Your father was a great man; loyal, honest, honorable. One of the last great men, I fear. He was a ward of Jon Arryn, that much I'm sure you already know. But you never knew Jon Arryn. He was a great man too. And then there was Robert Baratheon. True enough, he became a drunken lout once he took the throne, but he too was a great man."

A pained look flushed across Lord Royce's hardened face. It was the look of regret. She had seen the same look on her father's face when they had begun their journey from Winterfell to King's Landing so long ago.

"These men, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, and Robert Baratheon, have perished and the realm bleeds because of it, a gaping wound that has begun to fester. Lannisters and their hordes are all but running the seven bloody kingdoms into the pits of the deepest hell, one by one. They are poison to our existence. Your brother had the right of it; liberate the North before the poison could seep in, amputate the limb to avoid a certain death.

I wanted the Vale to support your brother in his cause. I rallied my bannermen and wished to do the same with the rest of the Vale. I tried to council your Aunt, to make her see, to make her understand the direness of the situation. She was mad with paranoia and fear by then, unreachable it seems. It makes no matter. I was too late anyway. Your brother is now the King who Lost the North, his family and his bannermen scattered and wandering the Seven Kingdoms."

Sansa lightly worked the white cloth in her hands before noticing the embroidering that was showing slightly through the folds. She opened the cloth to find the half completed direwolf of the House Stark, the one she had been working on when Lothor Brune summoned her upon the Lords Declarants' arrival to the Eyrie. Stunned, she gasped, but before she could say anything Lord Royce took her hands in his.

"You are a Stark, perhaps the last; the last of a lineage that extends thousands of years, back to the Age of Heroes. Are you familiar with my house sigil and words, Sansa?"

She searched the recesses of her memory to the long days spent listening to Maester Luwin dissert each house's sigil and words. Bran had eagerly absorbed the information, fascinated by the intertwining histories of the houses. Sansa would sit bored, daydreaming of the knights and maidens of the songs and stories she loved.

"Runestone. Your family seat is in Runestone. And you wear armor inscribed with runes, my father once told me. I had asked him why you were called Bronze Yohn."

Lord Royce laughed heartily at that. "Aye. Runes. Runes inscribed into bronze armor. Runes which have kept my ancestors from harm. Runes worked with the magic of old. The Royces, much like the Starks, are blood of the First Men, ancient wisdom coursing through our veins, hidden away somewhere forgotten. Royce words, Sansa, are 'We Remember.'"

He sighed deeply before continuing.

"Aye, and so it is. We remember. More like, we have not forgotten. Jon Arryn was snuffed out by Lysa Tully at the behest of Petyr Baelish, of this I am certain. We have not forgotten. Your father was murdered on steps of the Sept of Baelor by a bastard King. We have not forgotten. Your mother, brother, and countless good men were slaughtered at the Red Wedding by traitors and turncloaks. We have not forgotten."

Sansa sat speechless, the wind lightly playing at the loose strands of her hair which shone auburn in the moonlight, Alayne Stone yielding to Sansa Stark. Lord Royce caught one of the loose tresses delicately with his fingers contemplating the dried blood that still remained there.

"The direwolf, sigil of your House. It seems the wolf in you is showing her teeth. She, more than any, has not forgotten."

Sansa shook her head. "No, my Lord, I most certainly have not forgotten."

"Neither have your bannermen. They have not lost their spirit, only a Stark to rally behind. Winter is coming, my Lady. Never has it been more imperative to have a Stark in Winterfell.  _You_  belong in Winterfell and I mean to see that through."

As a renewed strength washed over her, Sansa turned to face Lord Royce, with fire burning in her eyes.

"You are mistaken, my Lord. Winter is not coming, but is already here." Sansa motioned her head towards the legion of snowflakes descending from the sky towards them. "I am not my brother. I do not have an army and I cannot fight a war. I want to go home, but the way is lost."

"With all due respect, my Lady, it is you who is mistaken. The way most certainly is not lost. Throughout the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North, lost and broken men have begrudgingly pledged their fealty to the Iron Throne. Never think for a moment that these men are content with this arrangement. No, Sansa, they lay in wait for the invocation, the call to arms. It is time, Lady Stark. Just speak the words."

Sansa let his words wash over her, weighing them in her weary mind.  _Traitors and turncloaks. Cersei and Joffrey, Theon Greyjoy, Boltons and Freys. They have extinguished all that I have loved, snuffed out like the flame of a candle. I am neither Sansa, the helpless child, nor Alayne Stone, the lost soul. I am Lady Sansa Stark, last of my name. The end of a lineage that is thousands of years old, blood of the First Men, Kings of Winter. I will find my way home or die in the process. But should I perish, I will perish as a Stark of Winterfell._

Sansa turned her head and looked Lord Royce square in the eyes, her steady stare deliberate and fierce. "Lord Yohn Royce, I want to go home."

He did not break her stare, but instead silently nodded his head. "We leave the Eyrie tonight, my Lady. You know all too well you are not safe here. We shall stay within the Vale. The Riverlands to the west are too treacherous."

Sansa's thoughts fluttered back to Petyr's solar and Lord Royce's admonitions concerning the Riverlands.  _'…The Hound himself raped a girl of two-and-ten before viciously killing a dozen men.'_  "The outlaws," she whispered, biting her lip at the thought of Sandor Clegane committing such an egregious sin.

Lord Royce mistook the solemn tone in her voice as fear. "Aye. I meant what I said about the Riverlands, but Sandor Clegane is not the Monster of the Saltpans."

Sansa breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The Hound was fearsome, to be sure, but there was something oddly honorable about him.  _I knew it couldn't have been him._

"We have naught to worry where he is concerned. He is dead, Sansa. He died somewhere along the Trident, I am told. Some other beast donned his helm and raided the Saltpans. The Eyrie and the Vale suffer as long as Littlefinger remains as Lord Protector. I thought to stir him to action with talk of outlaws, in particular the Hound. He's more unyielding than I had anticipated."

She had barely heard him. Her heart had been lifted, soaring through the twilight sky, only to plummet, shattering in her hands.

_He's dead. He rode off into the darkness. He had offered to take me with him. If I had known that would be the last time I saw him…_

"We leave one hour hence. You will meet me here. Dress warm, girl, and leave your belongings. And be sure no one is following you."

Ser Royce raised himself to his feet and left her in the garden of the Eyrie. She sat in silence, the snow falling peacefully about her, glimmering beautifully in the moonlight, the beauty a cruel juxtaposition to the storm that raged in her heart. She was flooded with anguish and an ache that left her breathless.

Her mind was still a daze as Yohn Royce whisked her away from the Eyrie, away from Littlefinger, away from the nightmares of her Aunt Lysa pushing her out the Moon Door. She didn't know when or how, but he would bring her home. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, for a brave knight to rescue her from the perpetual nightmare that had been her life since the day she left Winterfell. She had prayed for this moment, to the old gods and the new, and they had finally answered her prayers.

_I am Sansa Stark, last of my name. Tonight I begin the journey home. My heart should be soaring. Instead it is breaking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two of Lord Royce's lines ("We shall have Lord Robert" and "Put up your steel, ser. Are you a Corbray or a Frey?") are quotes from "A Feast for Crows." In addition, Lyn Corbray's response ("Lords Declarant. You should have named yourselves the Six Old Women") is also a quote from AFFC.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I set out writing this fanfic, it was this chapter, especially the events at the end, that were playing in my head. For a multitude of reasons, I have been waiting patiently to get to this chapter. It is this chapter that the title of the fanfic ("Figure 8: The Infinite Fate") comes from.
> 
> It seems that there are certain people in our lives who we cross paths with and then separate from, going our own ways and living our own lives, only to be propelled back to that person once again. No matter how many times or through how many lifetimes, we experience this push-pull of the universe. Our fate with that person ends up being rather like a figure 8 with our journeys ultimately accelerating us back together.
> 
> Turning a number 8 on its side you end up with the symbol for infinity, which is not only abstract in terms of mathematics, but also pervades many aspects of mysticism and represents things that are eternal. If you are familiar with tarot, the eighth tarot card of the major arcana is Strength. It pictures a maiden taming a lion. The message being that we can tame our inner "beast" through internal, rather than external strength. In the eighth card also appears the symbol for infinity.
> 
> Regardless of how you view the dynamic of Sansa and Sandor, they both stand to learn quite a bit from one another: Sansa learning to gain strength through courage and Sandor learning to quiet his rage and gain inner strength through compassion.
> 
> The spiritual aspects of this fanfic (synchronicity, fate, universal guidance, etc.) have been rather intentionally and deliberately placed, even if they are just whispers throughout the story. I honestly believe that with Sansa and Sandor there is a story of two people who will always, in some way and through whatever hardship, find one another because through their fates they are somehow universally bound to one another.

Sandor made his way through the blanket of twilight towards the wind-worn stable that lay on the western side of the Isle. The sky above was a murky chasm devoid of starlight; thick clouds were rolling steadily from the southwest, a charioteer for the brisk, salty gusts of wind that descended upon the Isle.

Certain that the Maid of Tarth had followed him into the night, Sandor turned around once more to scan the horizon behind him only to see the trees swaying in unison with the sighing of the wind. He had not made mention of his intentions to set off in search of Sansa, but a silent, mutual understanding had passed between him and Brienne as he wordlessly retreated from her.  _I could bloody care less if the wench knows what intend to do._

True enough, Brienne was no real concern to Sandor, but he certainly did not wish to make his journey with her at his side, weeping and bleating endlessly about Catelyn Stark, Jamie Lannister, and all the oaths she had sworn to keep. Besides, Brienne had three traveling companions with her as well.  _Bugger that. Too many people will draw attention. I'll be better off alone._

Sandor's conversation with Brienne repeated in his thoughts.  _'Aye, I cared for her.'_ Without another word, he had left Brienne standing there, tears glistening in the sapphires that were her eyes, her mouth agape with astonishment.

The Hound had never truly cared for anyone or anything, save Stranger his horse and the sword at his side. Unbidden to him, the Little Bird had somehow worked her way into his blackened iron heart. Through layers of rage and hatred, violence and pain, she had, beyond all odds, found an infinitesimal fissure which led straight to the core of his being. Delicately she began to stir his soul; a pebble dropped in a silent pool of water, small ripples giving way to larger ones and larger ones still until his heart was savaged by steady waves of his feelings for her.

In King's Landing, the growing affection he felt towards Sansa had confounded him, rendering him helpless to the flush of emotions she unintentionally elicited from him. Sandor Clegane was a killer, one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms and rightfully so; he had killed countless men, women, and children without a second thought, relishing the way their blood coated his sword. Despite this, somehow he was defenseless when it came to Sansa; the way she seemingly floated into a room, leaving the sweet scent of lavender mingling in the air, the soft sing-songing of her voice as she would spout the loveliest of courtesies at him. Sandor was not a man that dealt well with feeling helpless. In an effort to regain control of himself, he would taunt the Little Bird, watch with twisted delight as she squirmed under his mocking glare and harsh words. When her desperation to flee was too much for him to bear, he would let her flutter off and the feelings would wash over him again, leaving him with pangs of regret and defeat.  _I have faced countless foes on the battlefield and courted death more times than I care to count. I have never been defeated and certainly have never been helpless. How is it then that a little peeping bird can render me, a vicious hound, defenseless like some suckling pup?_

Sandor shook his head at the thought as he approached the stable and pulled the doors open as slowly and quietly as he could. Once inside, he shut the doors again and felt his way through the inky darkness, his eyes adjusting slowly and his hands cautiously guiding his way along the wooded doors of the stalls.

A long row of stalls held half a dozen horses, many of which eyed him fearfully as he passed. Stranger was in the stall at the end of the row, separated from the assortment of destriers, palfreys, and geldings that resided in the stable. The ebony courser snorted, his tail flickering, and his hooves stomping violently against the door of his stall and splintering the wood at Sandor's approach.

When Sandor reached Stranger's stall, he patted him lightly on the head and murmured softly. "Easy now. I'm getting you out of here." Adjacent to Stranger's stall, his saddle and reins had been neatly hung, the leather gleaming with the small slivers of moonlight that had come to seep from behind the ominous clouds and streamed through the tiny window at the top of the stable doors.

_At least I don't have to go searching for that. My armor and sword may be another matter…_

Once saddled, Sandor led Stranger by the reins as silently as possible from the stall, his hooves softly clopping against the ground. Reaching the stable door, Sandor pushed it open and began to lead Stranger into the night. The horse grunted and pulled stubbornly back on the reins.

"Bloody hell! Don't tell me you got attached to this place." The frustration was heavy in his voice. "Did some pretty mare do you in?"

Before Sandor could curse his annoyance into the night, he spotted a reflection of light in Stranger's jet-black eyes. He spun around, once again keenly aware of his sword's absence, and met the placid gaze of the Elder Brother.

Sandor had not come to Isle on his own accord, but was not exactly a prisoner to the Isle either. Yet somehow he could not help feeling as though he was stealing off like a thief into the night. He knew not what to say so he held his tongue and hung his head, waiting for the Elder Brother to speak. After many moments, the man began, gently and in hushed tones.

"You wish to leave us." It was not a question, Sandor had noticed, but rather was said in acquiescence.

Much to his annoyance, another wave of guilt flickered in the back of his mind.  _Bloody hell! In King's Landing, I would have ridden over anyone that stood in my way without a second thought._

Sandor searched for the words to say. Unlike the Little Bird, he never had some septa to teach him all the proper courtesies for situations like this. Brusquely, he growled out the only thing he could think to offer the Elder Brother by way of an explanation. "You saved my life. For that, I am grateful, but I cannot stay. My time here has served me well, but I leave tonight."  _That will have to suffice. No way in seven hells do I plan on telling him why I am leaving._

The Elder Brother let his grey eyes fall to the ground in a far off stare. Many moments later a soft smile played about his lips before he inclined his head back towards Sandor, a strange sadness gleaming ponderously in his eyes.

"The girl. You seek the girl." The Elder Brother's voice was barely above a whisper.

Bemused, Sandor tensely nodded his head, and with a clenched jaw, replied curtly. "Aye. I suppose that the wench told you as much."

The Elder Brother let out a deep sigh and shook his head. "No, the Lady Brienne did not." Another silence hung in the air before the Elder Brother apprehensively began again. "What do you remember of the day I came upon you on the Trident?"

The question caught Sandor off guard. The Elder Brother had only sparingly revealed the details of that day. It seemed a lifetime ago to Sandor. The memories were disjointed flashes, indistinguishable from the fever dreams that had beckoned him towards eternal rest. The last words he had spoken were desperate pleas for a merciful death. Even at his most vicious, the Hound would have obliged such a request. However, his own pleading had been rejected and he was left to die an agonizing and slow death. The memory filled him with a smoldering fury.

"Little and less beyond begging for the merciful gift of a swift death, a request that was denied me not once, but twice. Beyond that, I remember nothing until I awoke here." The Elder Brother did not seem to notice the bitterness in his retort, but instead stared at Sandor with determined intent.

"When I came upon you, you were delirious. The fever had consumed you, burning through you like wildfire. I did what little I could to ease your pain. You were wrought with sadness, regret, and anger. However, it was not your physical deterioration or the kiss of death upon you that afflicted you so. Rather, it was Sansa Stark, of that much I am certain. Inconsolably and relentlessly, you spoke of her, you cried out for her, you were sick with grief over leaving her in King's Landing.

I made the decision to bring you here to the Quiet Isle. Unfortunately, your condition had worsened during the journey. You were given milk of the poppy continuously for a fortnight. You did not wake, but you dreamt of her. You muttered her name in your sleep most nights, screamed her name other nights. Do you remember any of this, Sandor?"

He remembered nothing of that time, those memories a black void, locked away somewhere forbidden within him. However, he did not doubt that Sansa Stark had haunted his dreams during that time.  _Those were the memories of my death. I wish not to remember._

The Elder Brother folded his hands and furrowed his brow before continuing again. "Sansa Stark is lost, seemingly vanished into thin air. The Queen Regent has offered a considerable price for the Stark girl's return to King's Landing. You are one amongst many who are searching for the poor girl, surely you must know that."

Sandor indeed knew that. He was well aware of all of it; the Little Bird lost somewhere, the price that had been set for her life, the hordes of knights, squires, common men, and high lords all looking for her with promises of Lannister gold fueling their searches. The thought threatened to beckon the rage within him.

"What is your point? Get on with it." Sandor's patience was wearing thin.

"I told you before I came to the Isle I had little else, but my sword, shield, and horse. I'm afraid that wasn't entirely true. I had bedded countless women, but loved only one. I rode off into battle, determined to come back to her with victory and honor. I had planned to marry her and give her a good life; a simple life, but a good one. I wanted nothing more than to make her happy. However, I died in that battle and ended up here. Many times I entertained the thought of going back for her, but I never did. She eventually married some knight, gave him four daughters, but no sons. For that, he took her life, this knight of hers.

I lived with my regrets for countless years and I am wroth to admit I still bear a considerable amount of that remorse. Even to this day, so many years later, I am haunted by dreams of her. I awake in a cold sweat, whispering her name. I no longer awake screaming her name, that much has changed over time, but that does not mean I am exorcised of her memory.

I understand your need to leave and will not stand in your way, but you must promise me one thing, Sandor Clegane. You are the Hound no longer. That man died on the Trident. Bury the Hound and promise me you will leave him at rest."

A bitter and familiar anguish remained in the Elder Brother's eyes and began to color his entire form. Sandor recognized this pained presence; he had seen the Elder Brother like this before and he now understood. Beyond that, the silent torment and regret the Elder Brother bore was seemingly a reflection of what Sandor himself was becoming.

_He's offering me the chance he had, but never took._

"Aye, you have my word." Sandor was surprised to find he meant it too.

"While you are a two day ride from the Eyrie, you cannot journey there directly. Nonetheless, that's where I would begin your search. You would do well to avoid Maidenpool, the Saltpans, and the Mountains of the Moon. Your best option would be to cross the Bay of Crabs to the north. Follow the banks of the bay up towards Gulltown and head back west from there. You will pass the Iron Oaks, but will avoid the Bloody Gate."

Sandor pondered the man's words, realizing that while the Little Bird could truly be anywhere in Westeros and even the Free Cities, it would be best to begin his search in places were a Stark might find refuge.

"Aye. That's where I will start. By the time I reach the Eyrie, the Arryn's will be making their descent to the Gates of the Moon for winter. If Sansa is amongst them, I will have a better chance finding her at the Gates of the Moon than trying to make my ascent to the Eyrie."

The Elder Brother nodded solemnly in agreement. "Very well. Your sword and armor will be returned to you. You shall be given enough provisions to see you through your journey."

The older man smiled. Not the vacuous half smile that fleetingly fell upon his face, but a contented smile that intimated the small piece of solace he had seemingly just found. The Elder Brother retreated into the night, stopping when he had taken a few steps away from Sandor, and turned his head over his shoulder, still smiling softly.

"I hope you find your girl, Clegane."

* * *

They had been riding through the night and through the day at a furious pace. Lord Yohn Royce was determined to put as much distance as possible between them and the Stone castle, which sat between the High Road and the path up to the Eyrie. Sansa was an inexperienced rider and quickly became aware of the saddle relentlessly rubbing away at the delicate skin of her inner thighs. Initially, she would grimace each time her chestnut mare's hooves crashed to the ground, driving her weight down in the saddle and pain up through her legs. Now, she hardly felt it; her mind was a thousand leagues away.

A numbness washed over her and silent tears fell over her cheeks, freezing to her face in glistening rivers as they rolled down her cheeks. Lord Royce had not taken notice or if he did, he chose to ignore it. For that, she was grateful.

_I am a direwolf of House Stark, the last of my name. I must be strong lest I will lose myself. There is no going back._

Lord Royce had hardly spoken to her, save from the few occasions they had stopped to rest their horses. Even then, the handful of words he would speak to her would be out of necessity. He would tell her to make her water and be quick about it, and then wordlessly offer her a meal of salted beef and a piece of black bread. They would eat in silence before returning to their mounts.

She had a thousand and more questions for him. He was a serious man, constantly sweeping his eyes over the landscape and softly cursing into the night when something would seemingly vex him.

_I don't think I've ever seen him smile._

Her father had been a serious man, but was also loving and warm. There was no such warmth where Lord Royce was concerned. The man who had so passionately spoken to her in the garden of the Eyrie about bringing her home to Winterfell had become taciturn and mercurial. The sudden aloofness in his demeanor filled Sansa with unease. She dared not ask him where they were heading. Something told her that she would not like the answer.  _There is no going back now. However difficult, my path is forward._

They were heading east, that much Sansa had gathered when they rode into the morning sun. She had welcomed the warmth on her face, but black clouds began forming on the horizon and blotted out the golden embrace from the sun.

_We are riding into a storm._

The thought made her anxious. Autumn storms were treacherous, her father had once told her, much worse than the storms of spring. Sansa had been a spring child, which, according to her mother, explained her sweetness and fondness for knights and flowers and songs.

_No longer am I a child of spring._

The silence that had invaded their journey left Sansa with her thoughts. She would have welcomed a distraction; something to make her forget the steady aching in her heart. The emerging saddle sores had offered her some reprieve until the numbness set in and she was once again afflicted with her anguish. Frustrated, she had tried to make a game out of seeking out as many birds as she could. When she spotted a falcon, she would promise herself four lemoncakes, finches would be two lemoncakes, and all other birds would be one lemoncake. Upon reaching a dozen lemoncakes, she stopped, feeling ridiculous and childish.  _Lemoncakes and little birds._

The memories hit her like a tidal wave, swallowing her whole and drowning her in bittersweet sorrow.  _'Little Bird.' Those were his last words to me._ His low, rasping voice was a whisper in her mind and once again tears began to spill over her cheeks, softly patting her hands as they fell.

_'He died somewhere along the Trident…'_ The words echoed in her head, screaming behind her thoughts of lemoncakes and little birds and bittersweet memories.  _He was strong, so much stronger than anyone I have ever known. How could it have happened? Was he alone? Was he in pain?_

Sansa replayed the night of the Battle of the Blackwater again and again in her mind; the eerily beautiful green-orange glow of her bed chamber as the sky was on fire, the weight of his body on top of her, the scent of blood heavy on him, and the way he pressed his mouth to hers.  _He wanted to protect me. He wanted to take me away so that no one would ever hurt me again. Gods, why didn't I go with him? I would have been with him at the Trident. Whatever happened there, I would have been with him. I wouldn't have left. I would have stayed with him, comforted him._

Regret began to rise within her, its weight threatening to suffocate her. She shifted her gaze to Lord Royce, stoic and unflinching as he eyed the horizon in front of them. As the gulf of silence between them grew larger, so did an impending feeling of dread.  _What would he say, my protector? What would he say if he knew I blindly entrusted my safety and my life to a man I hardly know?_

Sansa could have guessed what Sandor Clegane may have said. He would undoubtedly laugh that growling, mocking laugh and tell her she was being a stupid Little Bird with rage heavy in his eyes.  _'A Hound will die for you, but never lie to you.' He was only trying to make me see, to make me understand. His words may have been harsh, but they were certainly true._

She sighed deeply and squeezed her eyes shut in a futile effort of ward off the agonizing aching that was ravaging her heart, whispering pleas to whatever Gods remained above to grant her a small moment of solace. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the sun was beginning to lower behind them and a tumultuous darkness was creeping along the horizon in front of them. When their pace slowed to a steady trot, it seemed the Gods had answered her desperate prayers and Sansa found that sleep came easy to her. The rhythmic gallop of her mare lulled her into a dreamless sleep. She knew not how long it had been since she drifted into slumber, but she was abruptly awoken by a deafening crash of thunder.

She lifted her eyes to the sky and found black clouds churning against one another, angry and restless. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky and Lord Royce dropped back to ride alongside her.

"We need to find somewhere to shelter and wait the storm out." His eyes darted along the horizon in front of them. The rocky landscape of the mountain foothills offered little by way of shelter. His eyes settled on a steep slope of a hill, with a cluster of tall trees at the bottom. He dug his heels into his stallion and pulled her reins away from her, leading her horse behind his.

On the eastern side of the hill, a large overhang of rock created a shallow cave, barely big enough for them both to sit in. Sansa sat under the overhanging rock, pulling her knees tightly to her chest while Lord Royce tied their horses to one of the enormous trees that flanked the sides and front of the cave.

Once he had come to join her in the modest shelter, their ritual commenced; Lord Royce wordlessly handed her a ration of salted beef and hard cheese while brooding over the unknown specter that had seemingly been haunting him throughout their journey. As they sat in silence, she was beginning to grow impatient. In King's Landing and the Eyrie, courtesies were her armor, polite smiles were her sword. The armor had suited her well and she had been proficient at wielding that sword.

_Sansa, Joffrey's betrothed, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Alayne Stone, natural daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish. Both children of the spring._

_No more. I am Sansa Stark, last of my name. All that I have loved has been ripped from my hands. An autumn storm rages in my heart. I have prayed to the old gods and the new. My prayers have been returned to me stained with blood and drowned in tears._

_No longer am I a child of the spring._

Slowly, she raised her head towards the horizon. Storms had scared her when she was a child. When thunder would shake the walls of the Great Keep in Winterfell, Sansa would sprint to Robb's bed chamber, and crawl under the covers, tears streaming down her face. To comfort her, Robb would tell her stories of how the Gods would hold tourneys in their sky palaces. They would mount dark clouds in place of tourney horses and fly through the heavens above to dismount one another. As the Gods came crashing together, thunder would fill the sky and shake the earth below. As the thunder would boom, Robb would guess which God had been dismounted. On it would go until the storm would end and the thoughts of the Tourney of the Gods would ease Sansa into a peaceful sleep.

But that was many years ago when she had been no more than a child, fearful and timid. Now she found that the turmoil on the horizon was exhilarating to her, electrifying her body and filling her with resolute courage.  _I have questions and, as such, I shall have answers._ She turned to look at Lord Royce squarely in the eyes.

"My Lord, we are heading east. I figured we would. The Mountains of the Moon and the Riverlands beyond would have been much too dangerous. We are heading east, but where?"

A slight smile, almost proud, appeared on Lord Royce's lips. In the entirety of their journey, it was the first time Sansa had seen him abandon his mask of icy sternness.

"You are clever, child. No, we could not head west or south. Aye, we are heading east, towards Runestone. It is there, at Runestone, where I shall leave you for a short time. You will be safe there while I travel to Gulltown, which is a day's ride south. I will charter a ship in Gulltown to sail to Runestone to meet you. From there, we will sail around the bay to Coldwater Burn. The Coldwaters are my bannermen. You will be safe there."

He turned away from her in such a manner as to convey that he would not entertain any more questions.

It seemed to her that she had been whisked away from King's Landing to the Eyrie and then from the Eyrie to Runestone and from there to Coldwater Burn; one prison after another and another still. Try as she might, Sansa could not stave off her frustration. "For how long am I to remain in Coldwater Burn, my Lord? Until Littlefinger or Cersei find me? And then what is to become of me?"

Irritation flickered across Lord Royce's face and settled to a scowl. "Mind your courtesies, girl. You will remain there while I gather my bannermen and begin strategizing how to take Winterfell."

_'…gather my bannermen and begin strategizing how to take Winterfell.'_

The child-woman that was Sansa Stark in King's Landing would not have heard it. Alayne Stone in the Eyrie would have heard it, but never dare say anything in response. The woman Sansa had grown into understood immediately and refused to let it remain unchallenged.  _If I didn't know better, it would seem that he wants to take Winterfell for House Royce._

And then Sansa remembered.  _Andar Royce is his eldest son, heir to Runestone. I am the only remaining heir to Winterfell. It is possible Lord Royce wishes to join the Vale and the North together. Should I become Queen of the North, his son would be King._

The thought of being used as a pawn and the prospect of once again being married off to a man she did not even know filled her with rage.

She could feel the determination hungry in her eyes. "I beg pardon, my Lord. I did not mean to give offense. I am truly grateful that you will be winning back Winterfell in my name and for the House Stark. A Stark must always remain in Winterfell. Also, I am no 'girl'. I am a woman grown and now the Lady Stark. If it please my Lord, you shall address me befitting my status."

She half expected him to hit her. Instead, he only stared at her, his mouth tense, and after a moment, looked away in silence.

_I am Sansa Stark, the last of my name and my fate is now my own._

* * *

The Elder Brother had the right of it. Sandor could not have hoped to reach the Eyrie by merrily riding up the High Road to the Bloody Gate and politely asking for passage to the Gates of the Moon and beyond.

He and Stranger had left the Quiet Isle to cross the Bay of Crabs to the north. The water had receded enough that they could easily ride across on a ferry raft to the other side. Once on the other side, the Saltpans were a half day ride to the west, Sandor had judged. The Elder Brother had warned him that Randyll Tarly had sent his men from Maidenpool to scavenge the land around the Saltpans for the outlaws responsible for the massacre that ensued there.

_The last thing I need is to be spotted this close to where the bloody Mad Dog wrecked havoc._

The thought prompted Sandor to push Stranger at a speeding pace until they reached Wickenden. Rather than follow along the bay, which would have made him visible to others, Sandor traveled north from Wickenden and into the forest that lined the bottom of the mountain slopes. The forest path had slowed his pace a bit, but provided some cover from any fellow travelers riding along the bay.

Hailing from the Westerlands, Sandor was unfamiliar with the rocky terrain of the Vale and was none too pleased with the handful of times Stranger had stumbled over loose rocks, almost dismounting Sandor in the process.

Overwhelmed and frustrated, Sandor's mind wandered to the enormous undertaking at hand. He instantly became aware of the doubt rising within him. For all he knew, the Little Bird was not even at the Eyrie or the Vale or even in Westeros at all. Sandor felt his mood sour, exasperated at the thought of his mission being all for naught. It seemed to him that the odds were against him and he was more likely to come up empty handed. Despite this, he dare not let himself contemplate the thought of retreating back to the Quiet Isle in defeat.

Instead, Sandor had pushed Stranger to ride through the night and most of the day, stopping only briefly to rest and water the horse when the beast was clearly exerted.

He judged that Gulltown should be directly to his east now, probably ten or so leagues away. Through squinted eyes, he scanned the eastern horizon, roughly estimating the distance. Clouds were gathering there, thick and black as ink, steadily rolling towards him.

_Bloody hell, a storm is coming._

Over a soft slopping hill directly ahead of him, Sandor noticed a billowing column of black smoke and urged Stranger forward, towards the direction of the smoke. On the other side of the hill, nestled in a shallow valley, was a meek village and at its center was an inn. The Elder Brother had given him not only food for the journey, but a bit of coin as well. Sandor considered the prospect of staying at an inn for the evening. The menacing storm forged in the sky above threatened to be brutal.

_Stranger and I could use the rest._

He eyed the eastern horizon again, a flash of lightning lit up the sky and thunder grumbled moments later.

_Bugger that. The inn it is._ Urging Stranger forward, Sandor made his way down the hill and towards the village inn.

Sandor dismounted from his horse as a frightened stable boy approached hesitantly. Stranger snorted and snapped at the boy's hand as he tried to take the reins.

Sandor smiled and shook his head while tossing the boy a copper. "Careful now, lad. He's been known to take a grown man's hand clean off at the wrist. See to it that he is brushed, watered, and fed."

The boy stumbled to catch the copper and averted his eyes to ground. "Ay-Aye. Th-th-thank you, S-s-ser."

_I am no Ser._ Sandor almost said it out loud, but to his own astonishment he stopped himself. When the Hound had been called "ser" or "my Lord," irritation would give way to anger and the chiding retort had become natural to him. The stable boy had led Stranger away before Sandor could correct him, but he figured it was for the best.  _My aversion to bloody courtesies are almost as easily recognizably as my ruined face._

The inn was modest and a rusted sign hung on one hinge above the small front door. "Inn of the Falcon Flight," it read with a faded falcon's head barely visible, the paint chipped away with time. As the wind picked up, the sign swung on its hinge, giving off a hideous sound of metal screeching against metal. The stable butted up against one side of the inn, which probably boasted no more than eight rooms by Sandor's estimation. He doubted the inn had had much business as of late. Outlaws roamed freely through the Riverlands and the Vake, which made traveling a gravely dangerous undertaking.

Approaching the front door, Sandor pulled up the hood of his cloak tight around his face. He pushed through the door of the inn and into the common room, which was empty save two men in the corner, engaged in a boisterous conversation and steadily drinking down cups of brown ale. They paid no mind to him as he approached a small, rotund man with a grey-brown beard and soft green eyes. The man was the inn keep, most like. A wide smile flooded the man's face as he greeted Sandor, puffing with red cheeks as he approached him.

"Welcome, good Ser! Will you be needin' a bed for the evenin'?" The man struggled with a large cauldron of hot water as he worked his way towards the stair case extending to the right of where Sandor stood. To Sandor's relief, the man's preoccupation with his task had distracted him from making eye contact with Sandor.

Keeping his head down, Sandor replied, "Aye. Food and a flagon of wine as well."

Out of breath and panting, the man motioned his head towards the common room as he started up the stairs. "Shan't be a problem. Find yourself a seat and my wife will have it right out."

Sandor settled in the corner of the room, with his back to the wall and his face down lest someone recognize him by his tell-tale scars. The two men in the adjacent corner of the room continued their conversation, blithely unconcerned by his presence. Both men appeared to be middle aged, but shared little else in common beyond that. Where one was stocky and heavily muscled, the other was lithe and lean. The stocky man had grey hair, but was turned with his back to Sandor so he couldn't make out much else. The other man had golden hair framing a face with graceful, feminine features.

Sandor smiled slightly, amused by the dichotomy of the two men.  _One of these men has seen battle, the other clearly has not._

A plump woman with rosy cheeks and dark brown hair hurriedly approached Sandor's table with a bowl of steaming mutton, carrot, and onion stew, a heel of black bread, and a flagon of Dornish red.

"Here we are, milord! A nice hot meal and your bed will be upstairs, room at the end of the hall." The woman smiled merrily at him before fluttering off, skirts whirling about her thick legs.

Sandor ravenously devoured his meal and took a long pull from the flagon of wine. He savored the familiar warmth as the wine filled his belly. He sighed deeply and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Thunder boomed outside and he could hear the wind furiously battering the walls of the inn. He hadn't paid much mind to the men in the corner as he finished his meal and worked on the flagon of wine. As Sandor sat pondering the remainder of his journey, the dainty man mentioned a familiar name.

"Littlefinger meant to marry her himself. The bloody Lannisters were having none of that!" The man's speech was slurring and Sandor gathered the men had begun their drinking long before he arrived at the inn.

The grey haired man took a gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, belching loudly. "Aye. They meant her for one of their own."

The other man slammed his cup down on the table. "The fucking Imp," he bellowed belligerently and howled with laughter. "Poor girl had been through enough for her maidenhead to be taken by that tiny little prick of his. I could show her what it is to be with a real man."

Sandor's blood began to boil as his hands balled into fists.  _He will die slowly and painfully for that._

The grey haired man shook his head, pointing his finger in the other man's face. "Easy now! She's not a common whore. The girl is highborn. Show some bloody respect!"

A silence fell over the men. The golden-haired man slowly began to crack a smile before erupting with laughter and raising an empty glass up into the air, his arm wavering with drunkenness. "Bloody hell! So high and mighty you are. Wench! More ale for the both of us! Weeennnch!"

The large man let out an exasperated sigh before lowering his voice. Sandor strained to hear, tilting his head ever so slightly in the direction of the men.

"Littlefinger means marry her to Harry Hardyng, the Young Falcon they call him. They mean to reveal her identity during the wedding by parading her out in a maiden cloak of grey and white. The boy is a glory-hungry fool. He will ride into Winterfell in her honor and get himself killed by Ramsay Bolton, quick as a wink."

The dainty, golden-haired man laughed hard, spitting out a mouthful of brown ale. "Littlefinger knows this, he does?"

The grey-haired man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped droplets of brown ale off of his face. "Aye, he knows. He will marry her himself and secure his hold over Harrenhal, the Vale, and the north."

Sandor's rage was thick upon him now. He was seething where he sat, focusing every bit of self-control on not flying from his seat to slaughter both men, in particular the dainty-man. Joffrey was a sadistic prick, but Sandor had thanked whatever Gods existed, old and new, that the little bastard never thought to violate Sansa's maidenhood.

Sandor was never quick to trust anyone, but Petyr Baelish had made him uneasy ever since the day he was appointed master-of-coin and made his permanent residence in King's Landing. The man had proudly boasted at taking both Lysa and Catelyn Tully's maidenheads, at which Sandor had snorted and shook his head before making a comment about how he doubted Littlefinger's "little finger" could manage not one, but two highborn maidens.

Regardless, it was clear even to a man like Sandor Clegane that Petyr Baelish had been desperately in love with Catelyn Stark; a love she most certainly did not reciprocate. Sandor did not doubt that Littlefinger's fixation on the Little Bird was some attempt at a second chance with Catelyn Tully. Littlefinger was as perverted as he was manipulative. The thought of it made Sandor see red. He turned his attention back to the conversation between the two men.

"And what in seven hells could one man want with all of that land?" The girly-man was slobbering over his words and fighting against his body's swaying to remain in his seat.

"I admit I do not know the answer to that. Those thoughts have remained with Petyr Baelish alone. It does not matter now though. Bronze Yohn stole off with her like a thief in the night. All I know is we had best find her."

"Aye and when we do find her, I have half a mind to say we both have a go at her. A real shame for a pretty thing like that to go unused." The girly-man licked his lips and slumped forward, his elbows crashing on the table.

_The Hound or not, I will fucking rip his throat out._ Sandor's hands were shaking and it took everything he had not choke the man with his own entrails right there in the middle of the inn.

The grey haired man waved his hand in annoyance. "She is highborn, you blubbering fool! You will do no such thing. Besides, I'm promised a lordship should she come back unharmed. I mean to have that lordship."

"Well, if it please milord, I need to go take a piss." The smaller man pushed himself from the table and stumbled towards the door of the inn, shouting towards the inn keep as he passed by the kitchen.

"Wench! That ale better be sitting at the table by the time I come back." With that he pushed through the front door of the inn. A moment later, the plump woman rounded the corner out of the kitchen with a pitcher of ale. Approaching the table, she filled the empty glasses as the grey haired man handed her a couple of coppers for her trouble.

Sandor slowly stood from his table and slipped through the front door unnoticed. Once outside, the wind thrashed against his face as his cloak whipped about his body. His blood churned as violently as the blackened sky above.

He found the man on the other side of the stable, facing the wall and whistling "The Dornishman's Wife" as he relieved himself.

Sandor shook his head and smiled lightly to himself.  _Fucking fool. This is going to be too easy._

As Sandor approached, the man spun around with cock still in hand, nearly tumbling over his own feet.

"And who the hell are you? Can't a man take a piss in some bloody privacy? Fuck off!" The man was stumbling as he pushed his cock back into his breeches and clumsily went for his sword.

Sandor's fists were already clenched as he took two swift paces to close the distance between him and the drunken man, swinging his fist deftly through the air to meet the man's stomach. The man stumbled backwards, his back hitting the wall of the stable and his legs giving out underneath him. As the man slumped to the ground, he gasped violently in an effort to catch his breath.

Sandor stepped forward and grabbed the man hard by the back of his head, snapping it back to meet his furious glare. His voice was loud over the far-off rolling of thunder.

"What do you want with her?!"

Still choking for air, the man winced in pain. "I don't bloody know who you're talking about."

The man struggled feebly, fists swinging at empty air trying with all his might to reach Sandor. Enraged, Sandor wrapped one of his massive hands around the man's thin neck, pulling the man up to his feet and punching him hard in the side, the sound of ribs crunching under the force. Slowly, Sandor squeezed the man's throat and lifted him off of the ground. The man's hands flew up to meet Sandor's and struggled to pry them off of his throat. Sandor lowered his voice in a deliberate growl.

"We'll try this again. Sansa Stark. Where is she and what do you want with her?"

The man was gasping for air, delirious from pain and drunk off of ale. "The Eyrie. S-s…Sansa…St-St…" The man coughed and spat up blood. "The…the…the Stark girl. Littlefinger…" Another gasp for air interjected. "Littlefinger took her from King's Landing to…to…to the Eyrie. She escaped…He…he wants her back."

Holding him steady in one hand, Sandor swung the back of his fist to meet the side of the man's head and let him slump unconscious to the ground, blood pooling underneath his face. Standing over the man's unconscious form, Sandor lifted his leg and with the heel of his boot, stomped hard on the man's shin, which broke easily under the force with a sharp crack.

Sandor stalked off back towards the inn, but passing the front of the stable on his way, he spotted the other man, mounted on a horse and the stable boy pale as if he had seen a ghost, eyes as wide as saucers. The man's face was familiar to Sandor.

_I know this bloody prick._ The name escaped him momentarily, but raced to the front of his mind as a bolt of lightning cracked the sky open.

"Lothor Brune," Sandor rasped, his voice grumbling in unison with the thunder.

"Sandor Clegane. Many people, myself included, will be disappointed that Joffrey's dog isn't dead, rotting in the ground like they had hoped." The man spat at Sandor's feet.

Before Sandor could pull him from his mount and beat him bloody, the man drove his heels into his stallion and the horse sprinted forward, knocking Sandor into the frightened stable boy behind him.

Sandor threw his arms out to catch the side of a stall and steadied himself on his feet before swirling around towards the stable boy.

"My saddle! NOW, BOY!" Sandor's voice boomed with anger and the boy went quickly to work saddling up Stranger.

Sandor knocked the boy out of the way and swung himself up onto the saddle, plunging his heels hard into the horse's ribs. Stranger reared up on his back legs, front legs swinging at dead air and a deafening scream erupting from the horse's throat before bounding out of the stable.

* * *

Staring off to the eastern horizon at the brewing storm, Sansa had hardly noticed as Lord Royce rose to his feet. He too studied the horizon intently, but his expression was unease where hers was wonderment. Black clouds tumbled over one another in figure eights, broken apart as lightning shattered the sky and thunder erupted in its wake. Sansa's breath caught in her chest, enraptured by the scene playing out in front of her and the air buzzing with intrigue.

_This night is bewitched._ Goosebumps enveloped her skin at the thought.  _It is the storm. It is filling the air with whispers of something yet to come._ Sansa pulled her knees tighter to her chest and rubbed her arms to drive out the sudden chill that hung in the air as the wind began to pick up.

Lord Royce shifted his eyes towards Sansa momentarily before allowing them to flee back to the ominous horizon. He strode swiftly towards the tree where the horses were reined and began to unbind his stallion. Befuddled, Sansa rose to her feet and eyed him with puzzlement.  _If I didn't know any better, the man is afraid of the impending storm._ The thought seemed somewhat humorous to her; a grown man fleeing from a storm. However, there was something sinister churning amongst the blackened clouds.

Sansa slowly padded up to where Lord Royce was working at the reins of his horse. "I thought we were seeking shelter here for the night, my Lord."

Lord Royce lifted his eyes to the horizon once more, before hesitantly beginning with quiet reservation. "We cannot ride this storm out here. It would be too dangerous."

Sansa squinted hard against the rising wind that was blowing towards them. A flock of birds above flapped furiously against the wind, flying away from the storm and desperately trying to seek their own shelter.

"Where shall we go then? The nearest village we passed on the way here is nearly three leagues away."

Lord Royce considered her words, seemingly letting them tumble through his worried mind. He lifted his heavily muscled arm and pointed towards the angry eastern horizon where a densely forested patch of land sloped up a high hill.

"Aye. However, there's a small village over the hill there, about a league away. There's an inn, 'Inn of the Falcon Flight' I think it's called. We can seek shelter there. Pull your hood up tightly around your face. You're fooling no one with the attempt to darken your hair. The Tully is showing right through."

Sansa knew Lord Royce was right; the dark brown rinse that had been used on her hair was all but faded now. Her hair was a rich shade of auburn and nothing could be done to hide her Tully blue eyes. She pulled up her hood and clutched it tightly around her face before working at the reins of her mare, untying them from the tree. They had been traveling almost ceaselessly through night and day. Her body was aching and her head was beginning to pound. She welcomed the thought of sleeping in a warm bed and having a hot meal.

_An inn. I haven't slept at an inn since the journey to King's Landing from Winterfell._

Sansa began to realize, however, that the thought was becoming bittersweet to her. Something about watching the storm sweep over the horizon, furious and steady, had enchanted her.  _I suppose I can still watch the storm from within the inn as well._

Her thoughts were interrupted as Lord Royce came to her side, abruptly lifting her to her saddle. "Come, my Lady. We must begin towards the village. If Gods be good, we will reach the inn before the storm unleashes its fury." Lord Royce swung up to his own saddle and dug his heels hard into his stallion's side, forcing the horse forward in a dash. Sansa followed suit and urged her mare forward.

As they traveled towards the village, the wind was lashing across her form, snapping her cloak and causing her mare to neigh in disquiet. She leaned forward in her saddle to gently stroke the horse behind her ears and mutter reassurances softly, which did little to quell the mare's apprehension at the frequent claps of thunder that had begun to boom across the sky.

They had ridden about half a league by what Sansa had guessed. The forest was a blanket of green-black darkness, the trees casting fleeting shadows against the cold earth. The trees themselves felt as though they were intently watching as Sansa and Lord Royce made their way through, their leaves sighing whispered secrets as the wind rustled through. A steady chill persisted in the air, beckoning Sansa to pull her hood closer to her face to drive away the cold and retain every fraction of warmth she could.

Small raindrops began to fall from the black sky, softly plodding against the ground and stirring the earth. Gradually, Sansa felt more and more drops explode against her hands, the droplets spilling cold across her skin and sending shivers through her body.

The expanse of forest they had been riding through had begun to dissipate and she spotted a column of black smoke on the horizon, coming from the inn most like. She breathed her relief with a deep sigh. The rain was coming down in steady sheets as cold as ice, cutting through her cloak and chilling her to the bone. The thunder boomed across the sky so loud she felt it rattle through her chest.

Suddenly her mare stopped and stubbornly wheeled itself around, away from some invisible apparition. Lord Royce's stallion echoed her mare's uneasiness and neighed loudly into the night. Sansa's eyes darted across the line of forest to the front and the sides of them, desperately trying to search out whatever was hidden between the trees.  _This night is bewitched. I can feel it._

From the corner of her eye, a flash of steel was illuminated by a bolt of lightning. A scream caught in her chest and was buried there as a man astride a stallion emerged from behind a cluster of thickly-trunked trees. Lord Royce's hand flew to the hilt of his sword, pulling his steel from its sheath in a swift, graceful motion.

Another flash of lightning filled the sky and Sansa glimpsed the man's face as he approached with his sword extended in front of him. She recognized the face immediately.

_Ser Lothor! He's been following us. Lord Royce must have known it._

Lord Royce sighed his relief and snorted as Ser Lothor slowly, but deliberately approached. "Lothor Apple-eater. So here we are. I figured Littlefinger would have sent someone more…worthy. Or did you come on your own accord?"

Ser Lothor chuckled lightly and swept his eyes towards Sansa, meeting her petrified gaze with a soft, reassuring look. "Littlefinger may have sent me, but you know as well as I why I came. I want no trouble, Royce. The girl, just give me the girl and I will let you slink back to Runestone. I can assure you there is someone far more dangerous who seeks her."

Lord Royce shook his head and glared valyrian daggers at Lothor Brune. "I think not, Ser." With a speed that surprised Sansa, Lord Royce rushed towards Ser Lothor, his sword a blaze of steel as it slashed down hard towards Ser Lothor who blocked it deftly with his own sword. The sound of steel clanged into the night as the two men whirled about one another.

Sansa sat frozen on her mount, her heart beating frantically. She tried to scream. Nothing came out, but stifled whimpering. She knew not what to think, her head was swimming and pounding. Ser Lothor plunged towards Lord Royce, the tip of his sword finding a hollow space in his rune-inscribed armor, cutting through skin on his left side, leaving a deep gash that immediately spilled forth his lifeblood.

Lord Royce slumped back in his saddle and clutched his side with his hand, his face contorting in pain. He inclined his head towards Sansa, his eyes darkened with defeat and fear. His voice broke through the night, clear and steady.

"Sansa! Run!" With that, he edged his horse towards hers and swung the flat of his sword on her mare's rump. Sansa almost fell from her saddle as the horse reared on its back legs before fleeing off into the night. She dare not look back for fear; fear that some demon from her nightmares would be fast in pursuit, gaining steadily on her.

Instead, Sansa dug her heels into the mare's ribs as hard as she dared, pleading the horse forward. From where, she did not know, but a wild instinct to flee consumed her. The rain was pounding relentlessly against her face so hard she thought that her skin would tear off, leaving her a bloody ruin. Terror flooded her being; the terror that she had suppressed in King's Landing and the Eyrie seemingly suffocating her all at once.

She raced head long into the storm, rain pouring from the unsettled sky and thunder violently shaking the earth below. Sansa kept her gaze steady in front of her, fighting hard against the urge to see what or who was chasing her into the night.

A black form emerged on the horizon, small at first. She squinted hard, willing the rain to cease so she could make out the form. Perhaps to spite her, the rain came down harder, blinding her to what lie ahead. Regardless, she could tell that the distance between her and the form was melting away; still it came, it's frantic pace matching hers and making her heart pound harder in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut to drive the rain from out and when she opened her eyes again, the form was dashing in front of her.

And then it came to meet her; a black silhouette, horse and man, crashing towards her, their beings careening uncontrollably towards one another, the Gods themselves powerless to interfere. Her mare snapped hard to the right to avoid the collision, but only succeeded in tumbling hard to the ground, throwing Sansa from the saddle in the process.

When she hit the ground, she felt the breath escape from her lungs in an instant and a sharp light flashed in her eyes; from the lightning or the fall, she did not know. The frigid rain was pounding heavy against her face, mingling with the warmth of blood running down her cheek from a gash on her forehead. Her mare stumbled to her feet and fled into the night, leaving her bloodied and dazed in the cold ground's embrace.

As the sound of her mare's hooves faded into the night, Sansa whimpered in protest.  _This night is bewitched._

Suddenly, another sound pierced through the air. A sharp scream from a horse echoed somewhere through the darkness followed by a faint, but persistent rhythm of hooves. The sound became louder until the black form appeared again.

_Death. This is death coming to collect me._

The man swung from his horse and fell to his knees in front of her, his hair soaking wet and plastered against the sides of his face, one side a ruin of scars. His mouth was agape with disbelief, his eyes flooded with desperation and franticly drinking her in.

Sansa's eyes swept over him, half believing what they saw. She stared intently at his face until his grey eyes came to meet hers. She held his gaze as silent tears spilled over her cheeks.

_It's him. In death, he comes to me._

She willed her arms to throw themselves around him, to feel his embrace dissolve into her so that they may return to the stars together, melded as one. Instead her arms defied her and remained still at her side. The steady stream of tears falling from her eyes gradually erupted into soft sobs.

Seemingly understanding her desperate plea for his familiar touch, Sandor wordlessly cupped her cheeks gently with calloused hands, wiping away blood and caressing her skin in small strokes. With the feeling in her arms slowly returning, Sansa brought her hands up to meet his and was surprised at the warmth she felt emanating from them.

_Oh gods, it's him. Flesh and blood, it's him._

When she met his eyes, the bewilderment had retreated and had given way to what seemed like a deep yearning. He shook his head silently, and smoothed away the wet tresses of hair that were stuck to her face. She closed her eyes as he delicately scooped her up into his strong arms. Slowly, she encircled her own arms around him and buried her head into his neck, letting her tears fall freely from her eyes.

She breathed in deep, filling her lungs with his smell, which brought a familiar joy, one she didn't know how badly she had needed.

He pulled her close to his chest and wrapped his arms around her tightly, rocking gently and kissing her softly on her forehead. She felt his frantic breathing in her ear as he brought the side of his face to hers, breathing her in, and caressing her cheek gently. Softly, he began kissing her cheek, slowly working towards her lips and muttering something incoherently before pulling his head away ever so slightly. The tips of his finger brushed under her chin, inclining her eyes to meet his intent gaze. Gently, he ran his thumb across her lips in soft strokes.

The rain was beating loudly on the ground beside them, but underneath the sounds of the rain she heard it. That familiar rasp, deep and longing.

"Little bird."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is far from over and I promise some quality Sansa-Sandor time ahead. Feedback is highly encouraged and appreciated!
> 
> A special thanks to my boyfriend who helped me make the fight scene with Sandor much more believable. What I had originally written sounded more like a UFC fight than a fight that would actually take place in Westeros.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to post this chapter sooner, but, as you will see, it ended up being rather long and thus took much effort to finish. I hope you enjoy. As always, comments are quite nice and very much appreciated. If you like what you read, please let me know!

Stranger's hooves pounded hard against the cold earth, kicking up plumes of dust and grass each time they plunged into the ground. Grumbling its warning with thunder, the sky suddenly began to open up, spilling forth its fury in a downpour of icy rain. Sandor felt its chill cutting through cloak, leather, and armor to meet his skin underneath. He shivered at the wind, which was violently whipping against him and Stranger as they accelerated forward into the thick blanket of darkness that the night had become.

Sandor dug his heels hard into the horse's side in an effort to close the distance between him and Ser Lothor Brune, whose form had disappeared beyond the hill overlooking the valley. Sandor cursed under his breath. The thought of turning back flurried across his mind, but was extinguished immediately.  _There's nothing to go back to. My path is forward._

Steady determination began to take form within him, swelling and blotting out doubts or desires to retreat back to the warmth and comfort of the inn. Whatever was propelling Sandor into the twilight chaos in front of him was a force beyond himself; a celestial phantasm urging him forward, beckoning him towards some unknown fate that awaited him in the darkness beyond.  _You cannot go back. Your fate is forward._

The voice in his head was not his own, he realized, no more than the words that were spoken. He dare not question them, though. Instead, he let the disembodied bidding wash over him, filling him with a quiet, tenacious resolve.

Sandor Clegane did not believe in the Gods, the old or the new. Since the night Gregor had thrust his face into the embers of the brazier, Sandor had prayed silently to the stars, the direction of whatever being was housed in the twilight expanse above, urging it to vanquish the monster of his waking nightmares.

Night after night, Sandor muttered these prayers under his breath, pleading with the forces beyond. But his prayers were met with a resounding and painful silence; a silence which all but confirmed the Gods' non-existence or their unwillingness to set his troubled soul at ease. After the death of his father and sister, Sandor abandoned the unknowable entities in the heavens above and took up his sword.  _'My sword is the only God I need. I wield it and bring death.'_ Those words had become Sandor's silent prayer ever since. It seemed unspeakably cruel that whatever entity breathed life into his body would also rip his only true family away from him, forcing Sandor to continue on in a world where a monster like Gregor lived and breathed.

Indeed, Sandor Clegane did not believe in the Gods, the old or the new, but he found in this most bedeviled of nights that some force from beyond was compelling him forward. And so he continued, steadfast and resolute, despite the icy rain and the furious wind.

As the rain saturated the ground, Stranger's hooves sunk into thick mud as they rode up the hill that over looked the valley, slowing their pace considerably. Beyond the hill, a forest of trees lay ahead of them, branches reaching towards the sky above like hands thrown to the heavens in prayer.

Sandor's eyes strained against the rain battering his face and stinging his eyes, blinding him to whatever lay ahead. He blinked hard and opened his eyes again, willing himself to identify the form moving steadily towards him. Its frantic pace matched his, beat for beat, heading towards him as wildly as he was heading towards it.

As he struggled to make out the form, shadows of darkness masked its identity as it darted underneath a patch of trees, forcing him to lose sight of it for a moment. When a bolt of lightning split the sky open, the form suddenly appeared in front of him, horse and rider. The face that met his was a manifestation of his memories, sprung forth and brought to life, taking form at the behest of some devil haunting the night and mercilessly taunting Sandor.

And then they were colliding together, accelerating into one another, piece by piece and melting into one form. In a futile and frenzied attempt to avoid the inevitable, her mare cut hard to the right with hooves slipping on the slick ground and legs spilling from underneath her. The horse tumbled hard to the ground and threw Sansa from the saddle in the process.

Undaunted by the near catastrophic collision, Stranger pressed on, forcing Sandor to pull forcefully on the reins, urging the horse to an abrupt stop. Stranger slid to a halt and reeled back hard to stand on his hind legs, front legs swinging furiously while howling out a blood-curdling scream. When the horse's front legs once again met the ground, Sandor swiftly spun him around and began back towards Sansa.

As Sandor approached the Little Bird's motionless form, the mare was hysterically fleeing into the darkness back towards the village. Sandor swung from the saddle and fell to his knees in front of her. Terror filled his heart as he looked upon her face, blood trickling steadily from a gash at her forehead. Her eyes were to the sky and her breath was shallow, her chest ever so slightly rising and falling. Sandor pleaded silently with whatever unknown force had brought her to him, lying broken and bloody in front of him.  _No. You can't. You won't. You brought me to her and her to me. You can't take her away._

Sandor's thoughts were interrupted as Sansa gasped hard for air. As she drank in the frigid night's air, her eyes searched to meet his despite the relentless pounding of the rain from above. When she found his gaze, her eyes were illuminated once more, as if the breath of life had refilled her empty lungs. She stared intently at him, disbelief flashing wild in her eyes and she did not break her gaze nor did she let her eyes wander away from his.  _All this time. All I ever wanted was for her to look at me like this._

Slowly and silently, tears had begun to spill forth from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks in steady streams, coming to meet the red river of blood that was running down her forehead. Suddenly, soft moaning gave way to choked sobs, desperation and pleading erupting forth as she struggled to reach out to him.

Echoing her sentiment, Sandor cradled her cheeks in his hands, feeling the softness of her skin and warmth of her blood while slowly and softly grazing her skin in gentle strokes. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as her small, shivering hands retreated up to meet his. She gently caressed them, softly working over every callous and scar, as if seeking some long forgotten memory in each.

Her hair was a darker shade of auburn, he noticed; not the vibrant, fiery red it had been, but still beautiful nonetheless. He wordlessly smoothed the saturated tresses from her face, intertwining the strands in his fingers. Bewilderment yielded to the overwhelming and sudden realization that whatever unknown force was urging him on at a speeding pace through the night had meant to bring her to him; accelerating them towards one another until their fates and forms were properly together once more.

A debilitating longing to have her in his arms surged through Sandor. He replied helplessly by scooping her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest and rocking gently. In response, her arms gently wrapped around his neck where she buried her face, spilling small tears which patted his neck and shoulder. He felt her chest rise sharply and fall with a gentle sigh. He knew with a calm certainty that she was breathing him in.

The warmth of her in his arms, the familiar smell of lavender in her hair, exhilarated him. He pulled her closer and softly let his lips fall to the top of her head, leaving gentle kisses while resting the side of his face against hers, cheek to cheek. He caressed his face against hers, relishing the warmth and softness he found there, before turning to brush his lips against her cheek, letting the smoothness of her skin meet the roughness of his half-burned mouth and pressing softly to dot her cheek with kisses.

He let his lips linger against her skin, brushing her cheek softly before moving slow and deliberately towards her full, perfect lips. He felt her breath coming short and stifled and the frenzied beating of her heart within her chest; the rhythm steady and in time with the pounding of his own heart. As his lips lingered at the edge of her mouth, she let the breath escape her chest, something between a gasp and a sigh. Ever so slightly, Sandor reluctantly pulled his lips away from her and gently inclined her chin with his finger tips to let his eyes meet her placid and ponderous gaze. Sandor's eyes fleeted from her eyes to her lips and his thumb gently brushed her lips, which parted slightly under his touch, flooding him with a burning desire to crush his lips against hers in a deep kiss.

"Little Bird." The words spilled from his lips like a prayer. "Little Bird, you're hurt."

Sansa brought her trembling hands to meet the gash at her forehead and pulled them away, quizzically pondering the sight of her own blood. Wide-eyed, she cupped his cheek with her hand and brought her eyes to meet his in a consuming gaze, one that matched the yearning that had settled in his heart.

"It's you. It's really you. This is a dream. They said you were dead. They said…" Her voice was tremulous and quivering. If she hadn't looked so convinced, he may have laughed. Instead, he took her hands in his, moving them from his face to his chest, holding them hard there to meet the persistent thumping of his racing heart.

"No, Little Bird. Feel that? That means I'm very much alive." Her expression turned to wonderment as she swept her eyes across his face. It was the first time she had really looked at him. In King's Landing, she would look at the air beside his face in a far-off stare or would avert her eyes altogether, filling him with rage and frustration. For the first time, he felt like she was really seeing him and to his surprise and bewilderment, her eyes were not filled with disgust or fear, only relief.

Instead, it was him that averted his gaze, crumbling under her consuming gaze lest he lose himself in it. He found that when he looked at her he no longer saw a girl on the cusp of womanhood, fearful and unsure of herself. Instead, the creature in front of him was a woman grown with a fortitude and assuredness he never thought to correlate with Sansa Stark. Even with his eyes to the ground, he could feel her stare searing through him, which beckoned a feeling he had never felt before; nervousness. For the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane was nervous.  _Bugger that! I'm not some fucking green boy._

With that, Sandor brought his attention back to the gash across Sansa's forehead. The blood was thickening and congealing dark and sticky. It wasn't particularly deep, but would need to be cleaned and dressed, nonetheless. The rain had receded to a thin drizzle, but the night had grown cold; their breath was steaming from their bodies in misty white puffs.

Begrudgingly, Sandor pulled his gaze away from Sansa and into the murky darkness behind her.  _The Little Bird didn't just drop from the sky. She was running from something._

A heavy veil of fog was enveloping the forest behind her, rolling slowly through the trees and threatening to consume them. Sandor became keenly aware that whatever his Little Bird was running from was lurking somewhere within that devilish mist. The hair on his arms stood on end and goosebumps ravaged his skin as an unnatural silence had ascended upon them.  _You need to get her away from here. Now._

Whether it was his own instincts or some spectral whisper, Sandor knew the words were true.

* * *

Sansa was in a daze, her head was swimming and not just from the tumble she had taken from the saddle. The way he had looked at her had all but ceased the steady beating of her heart. His eyes were wild with shock, a frenzy of disbelief and elation. He had never looked at her like that before. In King's Landing, he considered her with either a drunken leer or an enraged scowl, but never like he was looking at her now.

She smirked softly as his eyes fell to the ground, refusing to meet her persistent stare.  _It seems that now he is the one who cannot look at me._ She was simultaneously bemused and disappointed.

Suddenly, Sandor lifted his head, but instead of meeting her gaze, as she had desperately hoped he would, he frantically swept his eyes over the forest behind her. Sansa whipped her head around her shoulder, expecting to see Ser Lothor or Lord Royce racing towards them. Instead, she saw empty shadows and fog spilling forth from between the trees of the forest.

Still scrutinizing the darkness behind her, Sandor abruptly flew to his feet.

"We have to go, Little Bird." She nodded silently in agreement, remembrance filling her mind.  _Ser Lothor was coming for me. He's still out there somewhere._

Sandor took both of her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. Her heart fluttered as she felt his calloused hands tightly wrapped around hers, his skin warm against her hands. When she came to her feet, her chest was flush against his, her hands still tightly clasped in his.

She had forgotten how tall Sandor was. Margaery Tyrell's cousins had fawned over how tall Sansa was and she had known it was true. In Winterfell, she was at least a head taller than Jeyne Pool who was of an age with her. Long-limbed as she was and despite the fact she had grown since he last saw her, Sandor still stood significantly taller than her; so much so, that she had to incline her head far back to look him in the eyes.

Sansa slowly tilted her head back and allowed her eyes to roam up his form. When they fell upon his face, she found that he was already intently looking at her, his eyes seemingly eager to drink her in. It was as if he was studying her features, willing them to his memory. His gaze swept across her face; first, steadily on her eyes, then falling to her lips, across her cheeks, and back to her eyes. A flush of heat flooded her body. Sansa stifled a gasp as the warmth strangely settled between her legs. Suddenly, his hands came to her waist and lingered there momentarily, gently caressing the fabric of her dress, before lifting her to Stranger's saddle. A fluttering filled her stomach and she felt light headed.

Sandor pulled himself up into the saddle behind her and took the reins. She felt a strong arm wrap around her waist and slide her back into the saddle so that her back was flush against his chest. Her heart was beating wildly against her chest and she blushed furiously, embarrassed at the thought that he was most definitely feeling her tremble at his touch. She felt his lips brush softly against her ear and his slow, rasping breath rustle through her hair.

"Best hold on tight, girl." As he started to pull away, he brushed his lips softly against the side of her face, the half burned flesh tickling her cheek lightly as his lips hovered momentarily there. She closed her eyes as an unsolicited sigh escaped her chest. Her body was buzzing at his touch. She thought he might press his lips against her cheek, planting soft kisses as he had when he found her bleeding on the ground. Instead, he pulled his face away and wrapped his arm around her waist tighter, pressing himself against her.

His other hand took the reins with a steady pull and Stranger thrust forward, riding briskly into the night.

* * *

They rode south, away from the village and the forest beyond the hill that overlooked the valley. With the village to the east, the forest to the west, and an unknown expanse to the north, Sandor considered the southern path the only one he was willing to take. On his journey from the Quiet Isle, he had traveled from the south and was somewhat familiar with the route he and Sansa were embarking on.

They had not lingered long enough to discuss from whom Sansa was running. Instead, he had hurriedly placed her in the saddle, plucking her from her unnamed pursuer, and seated himself behind her before setting off into the night.

To Sandor's surprise, Sansa had wordlessly settled into the saddle, leaning back against him, unflinching as he pulled her closer. She had seemingly understood the urgency to leave and did not protest, but quietly and unquestioningly entrusted herself to him.

The events of the evening had put him in a daze, an endless fog from which he felt he was finally emerging. It had all seemed but a dream to him; the way she had appeared, miraculously manifested from some wistful fantasy and had come colliding into him. Sansa Stark could have been anywhere in the world and yet she was there with him, his arms wrapped tightly around her lest the Gods were cruel and wished to rouse him from this waking dream, leaving him once more lost and wandering.  _Of all of Westeros, of all the Free Cities, the entire bloody world, she could have been anywhere and I found her. Or maybe she found me..._

A part of him wanted to know everything; what had happened to her after his departure from King's Landing, how she had escaped, who had helped her, who she was running from, and how it came to be that she was with him now. Indeed, a part of him wanted to know it all.

However, a greater part of him wanted to know nothing, to keep them in this moment; a moment where no questions needed to be asked or answered and they could disappear into the night, paying no mind to all those who wished to find them, wished to tear them apart.

Sandor pushed Stranger at a speeding pace until he was certain enough distance was between them and the village, the forest, and whatever phantasmal enemy they had left in the darkness behind them. Once their pace slowed to a steady trot, Sandor eyed the sky above them and allowed an eerie calm to pervade his being. The storm had lifted, but the stars were invisible behind a thick curtain of dark clouds that still sought to conquer the sky.

Through the sudden quietude, the fervid ghosts of his past began marching forth from the recessed shadows of his mind, willing themselves to be seen and to be heard. The memories were no stranger to Sandor and when they would emerge, he would respond by fighting them in earnest, staving them off one night at a time. But somehow Sansa's presence had breathed life into those memories, reawakening them to ravage his mind.

Helpless, Sandor yielded to the demons that afflicted him and let his mind succumb to the memories of the night of the Battle of the Blackwater; the night that his fear devoured and defeated him, the night he had come to her while water, sky, and land alike burned uncontrollably.

He had abandoned the fighting, certain that it was a losing battle. Even if victory had been assured, Sandor had all but made up his mind that he was no longer willing to lend his sword and risk his life for a Lannister or their barbaric causes. Stannis could have the city, he could have the king, and he could have all of Westeros, for all Sandor had cared. There was only one thing Sandor would not let Stannis have. And so he went to her, the only thing that mattered, the only thing he ever truly wanted.

When Sandor stumbled into her bedchamber, he was a finished man. If he was fortunate, the Lannisters would have sent him to the Wall to finish out his days freezing his balls off on a pile of ice and snow. More likely, they would have had his head; even he knew a dog that turns on its master had best be put down. He went to her with the desperate and drunken thought that he might be able to keep her, to set her free and that instead of flying away in fear, she would remain with him as his Little Bird.

He had not expected Sansa to come to her bedchamber that night, but she did. Breathlessly, she watched the sky as it burned, looking more like a woman in that moment than she ever had in all the time she had been in King's Landing. In the silent shadows, he watched her there; the green and orange hues of the raging fires painting her skin and illuminating the auburn of her hair while she muttered the name of her direwolf as if frantically clinging to any memory of home that fluttered in her mind.

Wordlessly, he snatched her by the wrist and covered her mouth before she could scream. As the fear flooded her face, he threatened her life. He told her that he had lost. Naively, she had asked what he lost.  _'All'_.  _I told her I lost all._   _If only she had known how true that was. If only I had known how much I still had left to lose._

He had told her he was leaving, heading north somewhere. He told her he would take her with him, he would keep her safe and that no one would ever hurt her again or he would kill them. Sandor had meant those words, and if there was ever anything he had ever told her, had ever wanted her to understand, wanted her to know the bitter truth of, it was those words. And yet she was petrified, trembling and desperately struggling to free herself of him. When he had pulled her closer, her eyes snapped shut as if willing him away. It had simultaneously enraged and destroyed him. He told her he lost all and it was not until that moment, with her eyes squeezed shut and her breath frantically heaving out of her chest, that he knew he truly had.

Sick with rage and wine and with an ache growing in his chest, Sandor had forced a song. With a knife to her throat, the promise of a steely death pressing against her skin while the night was alive with fire, Sansa sang to him. Not the song of lovers, but the song of mercy and gentleness. Sandor had forced the song, but wanted a kiss, a touch, any small comfort in the desperation and silent pleading of that moment. Seemingly, she had invaded his thoughts and besieged his heart, for she reached out and cupped his bloody and tear-stained cheek with her small, quivering hand. Through fear and pain, she had shown him a comfort and a kindness he had never known. She had given him everything, but truly he had lost all.

Silently and slowly, he tore himself away from the Little Bird, the only thing he had ever truly wanted to keep. But Sansa Stark wanted a knight; a beautiful, brave, and gallant knight. Sandor was none of those things. And so, tearing off his white cloak and letting it fall softly to the floor, he left her with the only thing that he had once thought could keep her safe; the white cloak of the Kingsguard, the symbol of protection he had tried so hard to give her while she was in King's Landing because it was all he had to offer. When Sandor solemnly retreated from her bedchamber, he was a broken man.

Sansa stirred slightly in the saddle, rescuing Sandor from the resurrection of those buried memories. It was the first time he had truly and completely allowed his mind to wander back to the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. On the Quiet Isle, Sandor was well aware that he if had chased after the genesis of his guilt, the source of that suffocating ache, it would unravel him. Instead, he kept the memory of that night sequestered to some remote recess of his mind, caged like a rabid beast.

Sansa's return to him had unleashed the memories to run wild through his mind, but the anticipated feelings of guilt were eclipsed by a sudden fear that he could not keep the Little Bird safe from harm, not anymore.

_I threatened her life and took a song, a song she never wanted to give. And then I left her while the city burned and men died screaming. I left her to be married off to the fucking Imp. Left her to fall into the hands of Littlefinger. And yet she returns to me and I know not where we are headed or for how long I can keep her safe._

Sandor felt as though he might retch as the realization washed over him. He had no plan for where to take her, for where he could keep her safe from all who wished to find her. Frenzied, he had set out on the journey to find his lost Little Bird and here she was, tucked safely in his arms, yet he had not considered what he might do when he actually found her. In truth, he had half expected to never find her.

Angry with himself, Sandor became flushed with frustration, his mouth twitching and his hands balling tightly into fists.  _If there is one thing the Little Bird and I have in common, it is that we are both wanted in the Seven Kingdoms. Too many bloody people are all too eager to find the both of us._

Sandor shook his head to release the thought and pulled Sansa closer to him. As she let out a contented sigh, Sandor kissed her lightly on the top of her head, letting the auburn tresses of her hair dance about his face.  _I promised I would keep her safe. The Quiet Isle. We are already heading south. We can remain there until I figure out what to do._

While the night was moonless, Sandor gathered it must be midnight, the hour of the wolf. They would need to stop soon and rest, he knew. While the Vale was treacherous on horseback, its mountainous landscape was carved with crevices and caverns which could provide shelter. For that he was grateful.

Pulling slightly on the reins, Sandor led Stranger towards a steep slope a few paces to their right. While he eyed the safest path down the slope of rocks, Sansa turned over her shoulder.

"Where are we?," she inquired sleepily as Sandor swung from Stranger's back to lead the horse down what appeared to be the most sure-footed path to descend the slope.

"We are nowhere, Little Bird. We rest here for a bit. Then we head back south." Carefully, Sandor placed one foot in front of the other, slowly easing himself and Stranger down the slope. When they had reached the bottom, Sandor let out a sigh of relief and wiped away the sweat that was beading on his brow. Sweeping his eyes across the craggy length of the slope they had just descended, he spotted a large crevice in the rocks. As they approached, the crevice appeared to be larger than Sandor had originally estimated; its entrance giving way to a hollow cavern nestled in the side of the hill. While Stranger would have to be reined up outside, the cavern boasted more than enough room for him and Sansa.

"You said we are heading south. Where south?" The question was posed to him inquisitively and innocently enough. However, through frustration Sandor could not help wanting to avoid the topic lest she begin to understand the direness of their situation and that he had not pondered or planned their journey but rather was propelled into it by some fashion of fate.

"No more questions, girl."

Unbidden, his words came out brusque and curt. Wordlessly, she nodded her head, staring off into the stillness of the night.

* * *

Sansa had been lulled into a serene daze at the rhythmic galloping of Stranger and the warmth of Sandor's arms gently folded around her. She felt as though she was cast away into an ethereal dream, the lines of which edged closer to her waking consciousness and sought to deceive her. She feared the gossamer veil of this vision would be lifted and that any moment the man, who only a few hours earlier she believed dead, would be ripped away from her again, leaving an aching chasm in her chest where her heart should be. Sansa clutched his arm and pulled it closer to her at the thought.

Once they had ridden for what felt like at least several hours, Sandor had allowed Stranger's pace to slow slightly before swinging himself from the saddle and leading the horse with Sansa astride down a steep slope. Restively and reluctantly, the horse obliged Sandor's steady pull on the reins. Cautiously, he led Stranger down the slope and muttered curses whenever the horse's hooves slipped on loose rocks.

As they reached the bottom of the slope, Sansa and Sandor simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief. The bottom of the slope was cleverly hidden from the line of trees from which they had emerged. Any pursuer that had by chance spotted them and wished to come after them would have to brave the steep slope of slippery rocks and gnarling tree roots, just as Sansa and Sandor had. The thought provided a sliver of solace to Sansa's fretful mind.  _The Gods surely must be smiling upon us. I can only hope that that continues._

Suddenly, Sandor's hands were at her waist as he began to pull Sansa from the saddle. As he placed her gently on the ground, she felt her legs melt underneath her, sore with relentless riding and weakened by his tight grip still about her waist. As her knees buckled beneath her, Sansa was driven forward, stumbling over her own feet. She felt a tight grasp around her forearm, steadying her on her feet. Sansa let herself fall into his chest, despite his grasp on her arm. Timidly, her eyes came to meet his.

"Careful, girl." His voice was a low grumble as he let go of her and nodded his head towards a gaping slit in the rocks which opened up into a cave. "Stay in there while I rein up Stranger." His eyes swept across her body. "You're soaked. I can't promise I will find enough dry wood for a fire, but I'll try. I will be back shortly."

As he turned to leave, Sansa caught him by his muscled forearm, clasping her small fingers around it the best she could.

"What if someone comes?" She felt her eyes widen and her heart beat faster at the thought.

Sandor smiled softly while eying the slope they had just descended whilst shaking his head. "No one will come, Little Bird."

Gently, he pulled away from her and retreated off into the night.

Sitting at the mouth of the cave, Sansa pulled her knees to her chest, shivering against the chilly wind that made her wet cloak and clothes feel like sheets of ice against her skin. She pondered the sky which was devoid of stars and moon alike.  _This night, once bewitched, brought him to me. But from where?_

Sansa had wanted to ask him, but had been afraid. Desperately, she wanted to tell him about everything; King's Landing, Ser Dontos and the missing amethyst of her hairnet, the Eyrie and Littlefinger, Lord Royce and his promises of Winterfell. A wild desire to bare it all to him, the man she had feared for so long, consumed her. Long moments passed as Sansa reflected on all that had happened to her since Sandor's departure from King's Landing.

Suddenly, his form grew from the horizon in front of her and when he came into the cave, he dropped an armful of assorted pieces of bark, branches, and twigs to the ground. Wordlessly, Sandor began stacking the larger pieces of bark and snapped branches into a pile for the fire, his hands working swiftly and deftly while a furrowed scowl adorned his face.  _Something vexes him._

Sansa had sensed his aggravation long before they stopped to rest. In the saddle, his body had stiffened and his grasp around her had tightened. His mind seemed a thousand leagues away.

A silence hung in the air as Sandor continued working and Sansa eyed him eagerly, willing him to look back at her and meet her steady gaze. Instead, Sandor began striking flint against stone, small sparks dancing away from him and into the wind. When the bundle of kindling refused to catch, he muttered curses into the night and Sansa could feel the frustration emanating from him, filling the void of silence.  _He's afraid of fire. I should be doing this, not him._

Slowly, she extended her hands out to reach his. "I can do that if you like."

He stopped momentarily and huffed a mocking laugh before silently shaking his head, all while keeping his focus on the flint and stone in his hands and avoiding her intent stare. His refusal stung, threatening to evoke frustrated and disheartened tears to spill forth from her eyes, the eyes which wanted him to see her.

"Look at me." Her voice was faint and timid, only barely above a whisper. His head turned slightly at her words. He most definitely heard, Sansa had gathered. However, he did not respond, but rather continued at his task; methodically striking flint against stone and flinching ever so slightly at each smatter of sparks.

_We've been separated, torn apart to be brought together again. We've come so far and yet we are back to where we were. My frightened whispers and his seething fury._

The thought exasperated Sansa and she flew suddenly to her feet.

_No longer am I afraid of this man._ A recalcitrant resolve settled within her as she slowly, but intently paced towards where Sandor was kneeling over the humble stack of twigs and bark, still trying to catch the small bundle of kindling with the flint. For a long moment she stood there, eying him with a deliberate and fixed stare which he seemingly ignored.

"Look at me." This time the words echoed out of her chest, marked and unwavering with her eyes penetrating his form as his hands immediately stopped working.

Letting the flint and stone fall from his hands, Sandor inclined his head towards her with a strange smile playing about his lips, half mocking and half amused. Slowly, he rose to his feet, letting his grey eyes lock fiercely onto her steady gaze with his stare surpassing the intensity of hers. Sansa's heart raced and her breath caught in her chest. An urge to let her eyes flee and to shrink away from his oppressive stare coursed through her body. However, a stubborn determinedness challenged the instinct to melt under his penetrating leer.

When he finally came to stand in front of her, Sansa was beginning to tremble, her body shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind, clinging desperately to whatever fleeting courage she had left within her. Suddenly, Sandor reached out with both hands and grabbed her firmly by the waist. A slight gasp escaped Sansa's chest at the firmness and abruptness of his touch. His grasp was iron-tight as he held her there and let his stare lustily wander down her body.

Desire burned in his eyes and a slight, mischievous smile graced his half-burned lips as his eager gaze retreated from her eyes and moved down to her lips. There he let his eyes linger and tilted his head ever so slightly as he absorbed the sight of her. Still his stare moved lower, sweeping down her neck and settling momentarily on the steady rise and fall of her heaving chest. Letting his eyes roam down the soft sloping of her waist and hips, his breath escaped his chest as a deep, ragged groan.

A steady rush of heat engulfed Sansa's body and burned on her cheeks, which were undoubtedly a deep shade of crimson as she blushed hot and uncontrollably. Clearly, this did not escape Sandor as he lifted his eyes ever-so slightly while a sly half-smile spread about his lips and arousal engulfed his eyes. The same flush of wetness pooled between Sansa's legs, saturating her small clothes and making her breath come frantic from her chest and finally allowing her eyes to flee away from the intensity of Sandor's stare.

Suddenly, his grip on her hips tightened and he quickly yanked her forward so that her hips and chest were flush against his body. Sansa's heart pounded furiously and her knees felt as though they would buckle from underneath her as he gently brushed her hair from off her shoulder and softly let his lips graze the delicate flesh of her neck. As his lips brushed across her skin and moved up her neck, she relished the intoxicating sensation of his breath hot against her skin, moaning softly in response while he gently let his lips linger as he whispered in her ear, pulling her closer to him.

"You want me to look at you, girl? Is that the way of it?" Sansa gasped as Sandor gently pressed his lips to her neck and let his tongue lightly caress her skin while he softly kissed his way down her neck, soliciting a small moan as he pulled her tighter into him and let his lips fall across her collar bone. She felt as though she might burn alive at the heat that was surging through her body and making her heart beat frantic in her chest.

As he pulled his lips away from her, Sandor let his eyes fall upon her. Sansa timidly melted away from his stare, flustered and embarrassed for him to see how vehemently she was blushing.

With a bitter laugh, Sandor let go of her hips and retreated away from her and back to the pile of bark and sticks. "Aye, the Little Bird wants me to look at her yet she falls apart under my stare, under my touch. It seems that I should be asking  _you_  to look at  _me_ , not the other way around." His voice trailed off with defeat as he snatched the flint and stone from the ground. "Don't ask for what you don't want."

Her embarrassment and timid trepidation gave way to guilt.  _We've come so far and yet we are back to where we were. And it is my fault as much as his._

Slowly, she paced towards him and lowered herself to be seated next to him. Silently studying the pile of sticks and bark, Sandor let the flint and stone tumble from one hand to the other and then back. For many moments he did this, mindlessly letting them travel from one hand to the other with a far-off stare, his face stoic and impenetrable to any who dared try to read his thoughts. Sansa took the flint and stone gingerly from his hands and placed them carefully on the ground next to her feet. Gently, she reached out and took his rough and calloused hands into hers and turned her body towards his so that she could look upon his face.

Hesitantly, she began; yielding to her desire for him to know all that there was to know, all the secrets she had kept locked away in her mind.

"In King's Landing after you left and in the Eyrie, I dreamt terrible dreams. But you were always there, you were always-"

He snorted in derision and shook his head. "Always the monster in your nightmares. Aye, I know Little Bird. You don't have to tell me this." Abruptly, he tried pulling his hands from hers, but she replied by drawing them back, willing them to remain in hers until he finally relented.

"No, Sandor. No you were not." His head snapped around, his impassible eyes meeting her soft gaze. He was agape with astonishment at the sound of his name rolling sweetly off of her tongue.

"You were always there to protect me from the true monsters of my dreams. You saved me from them all; Joffrey and Cersei, Littlefinger and Lysa. It never mattered from whom. Always you came to me and kept me from harm, my protector." Slowly and steadily, his hands began to squeeze tightly around hers.

Sansa took a deep breath to steady the quivering of her voice as tears streamed down her face. "But always I would wake, alone and afraid, without you there. What I want is to know that this isn't all a dream and that I won't wake up again, alone and afraid, without you."

As Sansa's tears gently patted against her and Sandor's entwined hands, Sandor slowly shook his head. The crimson of anger that had colored his face had retreated, his pallor now akin to ivory as his frustration was seemingly washed away with her words.

"No, Little Bird. I'm not leaving you. Not ever again." His hands slid away from hers and cupped both of her cheeks. He kissed her gently on the top of her head before pulling her into his chest in a warm embrace.

Sandor rubbed her arms with his hands in an effort to generate warmth in her small, shivering frame. "You're freezing, Little Bird. I need to get this fire of yours started."

In the low tones of his voice, Sansa heard the trepid inflection of the word 'fire.' Wordlessly, she picked up the flint and stone at her feet before his hands could reach. While she had certainly never built a fire herself, she did not fear the flames which would expedite the process of catching the small bundle of kindling. After a handful of strikes of the flint against stone, a spark met the kindling and caught immediately.

As the fire grew to consume the pile of branches and sticks, Sansa sat in front of the dancing flames, entranced by their warmth. The cave was illuminated in a soft incandescent glow, the fire casting fickle silhouettes and fleeting shadows across the stone walls.

Sandor removed his damp cloak and draped it over a large rock that was bathed by the heat of the fire. Piece-by-piece, Sandor slowly began removing his armor and carefully placed it up against the wall of the cave. When he had finished, he was left in his woolen breeches and a white tunic which had remained somewhat dry, save for a handful of patches that were damp with wetness where rain seeped through cloak and armor.

Sansa's eyes were on him in a fixed gaze. In King's Landing, she had never seen him without his black scaled armor. That armor had seemingly entangled itself into his being, weaving itself as part of the formidable persona of the Hound; the armor a constant symbol of someone who was perpetually mistrustful and on guard.

As he stood before her, Sansa was seeing Sandor Clegane, not the Hound. She saw the only man who had ever offered her protection in King's Landing; the man who, against all the odds and obstacles the Gods had placed in their paths, found her in the bewitched twilight; the man who had somehow learned to quell the rage that had once burned uncontrollably within him.

Through the sheerness of his tunic, Sansa could see the contours of his heavily muscled arms and torso, the expanse of his broad shoulders, and the patches of hair covering his brawny chest. A familiar wave of heat hit her cheeks and emanated down her chest. She was powerless to pull her eyes away from him. She knew he would see her watching him. She knew what her mother or Septa Mordane would say if they were here to see Sansa eagerly drinking in the sight of this man.

In Winterfell, Septa Mordane's disapproving glare and or her mother's cautionary chiding was enough to deter her from anything that was considered inappropriate for a lady. But Sansa had been a child in Winterfell and neither Septa Mordane nor her mother was here to look on with disapproval. Besides, neither of them had thought to give her any forewarning about the ability of a man to elicit this sort of arousal from her, an arousal that was slowly devouring her body as she looked upon Sandor.

She had been a child in King's Landing as well and she felt that that was how Sandor viewed her then, a silly child, naïve and starry-eyed. However, something had changed; he was now looking at her like a man looks at woman and Sansa found herself enraptured by it.

_I am a woman grown now. And something about the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, tells me he knows it as much as I do._

* * *

As Sandor peeled his armor off of his body, he thought back to her words.

_'Look at me.'_

The sound of her voice had echoed off the walls of the cave, her voice was fierce with determination as she eyed him unflinchingly. And then, like putty in his hands, she had melted under his touch, her body emanating heat and quivering as his eyes roamed her form and he pressed his lips to the softness of her neck.

_'Look at me.'_

The words tumbled through his mind, replaying at each turn, again and again. She did not understand what she was asking, not truly, but far be it for him to refuse her, especially considering the request. He had paced towards her, taking advantage of the opportunity to take her in. She had grown taller, that much he had already gathered when he came upon her during the storm, but what he hadn't fully noticed was how she had a woman's body now; her breasts were fuller, her waist curving lusciously into her hips, her lips retained much of their delicious poutiness, but were now full and sensuous.

_'Look at me.'_

The problem wasn't that Sandor could not look at her. The problem was that he couldn't stop looking at her. In King's Landing, her beauty had caught his attention, but her beauty was still that of a child then. Sansa was a woman grown now and was utterly breathtaking. Whether she knew it or not, she was taunting and teasing him by demanding that he look at her. He had obliged her request and was thoroughly surprised to find that she yielded to his touch, blushing a deep shade of crimson and gasping ever so slightly. Willingly, she had allowed his lips to brush across her skin which coaxed soft moans that had all but sent Sandor over the edge. He had pressed his lips against her neck and allowed his tongue to graze across her skin. It had taken every bit of self-control he possessed not to pull her to the ground and ravage her body and her lips in kisses.

Sandor felt a stiffness in his breeches as he reflected on all of it.  _Seven hells! Control yourself._

As he finished removing his armor and placed it gently against the wall of the cave, he caught sight of Sansa in the periphery of his vision. As she eyed him eagerly, the same shade of red flooded across her face.

With a smile spread across his lips, Sandor turned suddenly to face her and watched with playful amusement as she frantically let her eyes fall away, scandalized as if he caught her doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing. "See something you like, Little Bird?"

Her eyes darted about the floor of the cave, desperately and indiscreetly trying to seek out any excuse that came to mind. "I…um…Yes. NO! I mean…Well…" She let out an exasperated sigh before wrapping her arms tightly across her chest and bit her lip.

Sandor let out a hearty laugh which bellowed through the cave. Sansa looked up at him wide-eyed as if memorized by the sound of his laughter. Slowly, a small smile began playing about her lips. He relished the moment and fought to retain it; the sight of her blushing in front of him, the way she bit her lip, and the thought of her looking at him the same way he had looked at her, lustful and eager.

"Seven hells, girl. No need to get so worked up. You're a married woman, wedded and bedded. You can't tell me you still blush like a maiden at the sight of a man." Sandor snorted his contempt at the thought of a grotesque imp like Tyrion Lannister bedding a beautiful creature like Sansa Stark.

Sandor glanced up at Sansa and saw that the smile had melted from her face which was now tinged with uneasiness and hesitation, as if she was holding onto an uncomfortable secret. She shifted slightly in her seated position on the ground, swaying from left to right and letting her eyes fall away to her hands.

"I never wanted to married Tyrion. I didn't even know I was meant to marry him until Cersei led me to the sept."

While Sandor had guessed as much, he was still relieved. He had always despised the Imp. When Sandor heard that Sansa had been married to the half-man, it had felt akin to someone rubbing salt into a festering wound.

Sansa politely cleared her throat before continuing, her eyes still glued to the ground. "Besides… He never…On our wedding night, we never…" Her voice trailed off and an unpleasant silence hung in the air before Sansa brought her eyes up to meet Sandor's.

He nodded silently, lost in reverie and with elation coursing through his body. "I understand, Little Bird. It seems the bloody dwarf spared you that dishonor, at least."

As Sansa's relief matched his own, she let the tension in her body go and eased back to lean against the large boulder behind her, folding her hands gently in her lap. Sandor rummaged through the saddle bag and retrieved a heel of black bread, thankful to be unburdened from the topic of Sansa's wedding and bedding.

With the food in hand, he paced back towards Sansa and seated himself next to her while splitting the heel of black bread in half, handing her a portion of it. Softly, she took it from his hands and with small, nibbling bites began chewing slowly.

The mention of Tyrion had jarred Sandor's thoughts, reminding him that he still had many and more questions for Sansa.  _Now is as good of a time as any…_

Sandor cleared his throat and set the bread aside, finding that his appetite had fled from him. "As much as I would like to believe you just fell from the sky, I know that's not how you came to me. You were running from someone. I need to know who, Little Bird." His voice was a low grumble.

With a furrowed brow, Sansa sighed deeply before shaking her head slightly, as if shuffling through the memories, puzzling over the important pieces.

"I left the Eyrie with Lord Yohn Royce. He said he would take me home; that he would gather his bannermen and win back Winterfell. We were traveling towards Runestone. As we neared the village, Ser Lothor Brune found us."

She stopped for a moment, seemingly befuddled by something as her face contorted in confusion which gave way to illumination at a sudden realization. "It was as if Lord Royce expected Ser Lothor to find us, as if he knew Ser Lothor was coming for us. Lord Royce pulled his sword, but was injured by Ser Lothor. That was the last I saw. Lord Royce told me to run so I did." Her eyes swept across his face until she met his stare with soft eyes. "And that is when you found me."

Sandor was well aware that Lothor Brune intended to find Sansa, but was troubled by how close the man had come to making good on that intent. However, Sandor had not anticipated Yohn Royce to be involved as well. He knew the Bronze Yohn; he had encountered him at various tourneys. The man was proud, to be sure. Boastfully, Yohn Royce would regale others of how the Royce's were blood of the First Men and how the runes inscribed on his armor had protected his ancestors from any who wished them harm. Sandor had come across his fair share of men like Bronze Yohn; highborn knights, self-righteous and vain. The Cleganes were not exactly common peasants, but it was no secret that the noble houses in the Westerlands and beyond looked down on a house that originated from Lannister kennelmasters.

Sandor was truly unconcerned with most of what Sansa told him. Lothor Brune and Yohn Royce were gnats; more of an annoyance than a real threat. However, there was one detail of that he was unwilling to overlook; a detail that was too transparent to merely gloss over.

"Yohn Royce told you that he would gather his bannermen and win back Winterfell? I suppose he left out the part where he marries you off to his son, Andar, ensuring Winterfell for the next generation of buggering rune-inscribed Royces." Sandor shook his head bitterly at the thought before continuing. "And the Eyrie. Littlefinger brought you there. What sort of bloody trickery did he use to manage that?"

Sansa eyed him with shock, apparently flustered and taken aback by his retort. "I gathered as much about Yohn Royce. Petyr passed me off as his natural daughter. Alayne Stone was my name. He had my hair dyed black." Mindlessly, she ran her fingers lightly through the long tresses of her darkened hair. "Petyr married my aunt Lysa. Shortly after their marriage, she appointed him Lord Protector of the Vale. She was deranged and jealous and thought I meant to seduce Littlefinger. She tried to push me through the Moon Door, but instead it was Littlefinger who pushed her through the Moon Door and then he framed her bard, Marillion. He bewitched the Lords Declarant when they came to question him and to take away Robert Arryn."

Sansa sighed deeply as relief swept across her face, obviously delighted to be purged of the information she had given him.

Sandor contemplated her words, letting them settle in his mind. Littlefinger was nothing if not clever, masterful at deception and scheming. Something was missing, a piece of the puzzle that was needed to form a whole picture. "He couldn't have thought to parade you around as his natural daughter forever. Surely he must have realized sooner or later you would be recognized."

She nodded silently before beginning again, her voice soft and hesitant. "He knew that. He planned to marry me to Harrold Hardyng, Harry the Heir, and reveal my identity on the day of the wedding."

"Aye. The Young Falcon. A gallant knight I hear, just like you've always wanted. I imagine you were beside yourself with happiness at the news."

Sandor did little to hide the acridity in his voice. He felt his blood run hot through his body. True enough, he had overheard the men at the inn speaking of Littlefinger's plans for Sansa. However, the prior knowledge did little to assuage the aggravation he felt growing within him. His thoughts were interrupted as Sansa let out a repulsed laugh, which matched the bitterness Sandor felt.

"No, I certainly was not. In truth, I'm quite sick of being told who I am to marry."

She shifted slightly and bit her lip as if biting back a shameful secret. Quietly she began again, her cheeks blushing a becoming shade of pink.

"I hit Littlefinger." She let her eyes fall to the ground. "I hit him with a shard of flagon and cut his cheek open. I left that same night." Her words were solemn and tentative, as if anticipating his disapproval.

Sandor eyed Sansa with pride and amusement as she sat blushing with either embarrassment or shame at her self-perceived impolite act. "You hit him? Little Bird has claws. What I'd give to have seen that." His hearty laughter echoed off the walls of the cave.

Sandor was in disbelief at what he was hearing. Sansa Stark had been immaculately trained by her septa and was a vision of what a highborn woman should be; courteous, soft-spoken, submissive, and dutiful. However, Sandor was well aware that despite all of her training, she was also a Stark and had the blood of the wolf in her.

His mind drifted back to King's Landing when Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head upon a spike. Boldly, she had spoken out against Joffrey, telling him she would gift her brother Robb with Joffrey's head. Sandor had been in awe of the way Sansa snapped at Joffrey, speaking with the fearlessness and strength he never thought that she could possess. Sandor often thought back to that day, the day he came to realize, with certainty, that he had been underestimating Sansa Stark.

His thoughts were interrupted as she turned to look at him. "The night of the Battle of the Blackwater, after you left where did you go?"

"I traveled north from King's Landing, through the Riverlands. I came across the bloody Lightning Lord and his collection of broken men before I ended up with the silent brothers on the Quiet Isle, near the Bay of Crabs." Sandor's voice trailed off at the sudden thought of Sansa's sister, Arya. The girl had been lost, just as Sansa had been and all the rest of the Starks. Their family had been scattered, torn apart by murderers and traitors.  _She doesn't think her sister is alive. She has no idea._

"Sansa." Her gaze flew up to meet his, roused by her name spilling softly off of his lips. "Your sister. Arya. I came across her in the Riverlands. She was with Beric Dondarrion and his men. I stole her away and meant to take her to your brother and mother. I heard of Edmure Tully's wedding at the Twins and thought to bring her there."

With a sudden gasp, Sansa was wordlessly shaking her head, obviously fearing the worse with tears glistening in her eyes. "Arya." Her voice was something between a whisper and a whimper.

"Your sister is alive, Little Bird. We never made it to the Red Wedding. We traveled up the Trident, heading for the Saltpans. I had been injured in a brawl at an inn. Arya left me on the Trident and from there I don't know where she went."

A sudden and painful ache reverberated through Sandor. The heartbreaking sight of Sansa, her body heaving from sobs and the way her face contorted with anguish, left him feeling helpless. It both infuriated and destroyed him that there was nothing he could do to ease her pain.

Quietly, he retrieved his cloak from the rock and paced towards Sansa, pulling her damp cloak from her shoulders and replacing it with his warm, dry cloak which consumed her small frame. Delicately, he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest, holding her there as she struggled to gain her breath. Pulling away slightly, Sandor cupped both of Sansa's cheeks, his eyes meeting hers which were red from crying.

"Listen to me. Arya is a fighter, a survivor. She is alive somewhere. I promise you we will find her."

With a somber calm washing over her, Sansa silently nodded her head in agreement before meeting Sandor's eyes with a fire that raged fierce in her eyes. "I want my sister. I want to go home to Winterfell. And I want to watch as those who have betrayed my family burn and bleed."

* * *

The river of tears that had flooded her face quieted steadily before finally retreating, leaving Sansa adrift in her thoughts. In King's Landing and the Eyrie, she had resigned herself to a painful and quiet understanding that her sister was more than likely dead. Sansa had spent long and sleepless nights haunted by the guilt she felt for not cherishing her sister when she had the chance. The childish taunting and bickering between her and Arya had culminated while on the journey from Winterfell to King's Landing.  _Arya saw Joffrey for what he was. If only I would have listened. If only I would have left with Sandor the night Stannis tried to capture King's Landing. Arya and I might be together again._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft ripping sound as Sandor tore off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic and paced over to a shallow puddle of water at the front of the cave, saturating the fabric in the water before wringing it out.

Kneeling in front of her, Sandor gently brushed her hair from away from her face. "I need to take care of your wound, Little Bird. It needs to be cleaned."

Sansa nodded in compliance and winced in pain as loose strands of hair were torn away from the dried blood of her wound. Gently, he pulled her closer and placed one hand on the side of her face. With delicate strokes, he began wiping away at the blood. The pain of the gash hadn't truly bothered her and it wasn't until he had started cleaning the wound that she felt a sharp, stinging pain reverberate across her forehead.

Sansa felt the pace of her breathing quicken at each stroke of the fabric; the warmth of his hand on her cheek, the gentleness and delicacy with which he wiped away the blood, the attentiveness as he scrutinized the gash with determined focus gleaming in his eyes.

Her mind flurried back to King's Landing and the day Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head upon a spike. Foolishly, she had spoken out against Joffrey, telling him she would gift her brother Robb with Joffrey's head. Her foolishness was paid back with Ser Meryn's mailed fist striking across her face. Calmly, Sandor had pulled out a handkerchief and, with a gentleness she never knew he could possess, wiped away the blood trickling from her lip. Sansa often thought back to that day, the day she came to realize, with certainty, that she had been misjudging Sandor Clegane.

Sansa let her eyes wander from her hands folded in her lap and up to Sandor, taking the opportunity to truly study his face. His eyes, which she once considered cruel, were a pale grey, the color of stone and steel. On the burned side of his face, the gnarled mass of scars was covered with long strands of his raven-colored hair. As Sansa took in the sight, the realization came that his scars were not as fearsome as she once thought they were.

The unburned side of his face was handsome; not in the graceful way highborn knights were often handsome, with slender and refined features. Sandor's handsomeness was rugged in a purely masculine way; the rough stubble of his unshaven face, the way his lips curled into a knowing smile, the intensity settling within his eyes.  _How is it that I am just now noticing how handsome he is?_

Sansa was transfixed to the sight of Sandor kneeling in front of her and found herself remembering the way he had kissed her the night he came to her during the Battle of the Blackwater. She had felt the tears combine with the stickiness of blood upon his cheek. Slowly, he had pressed his lips against hers, eagerly running his tongue across her bottom lip until her mouth parted ever so slightly to let his tongue mingle with hers. She had tasted the saltiness of the tears and the metallic sweetness of blood, relishing the comfort of the weight of his body on top of hers.

Aching with desire, Sansa wished he would kiss her like that again; that he would take her in his arms and that she could feel the warmth of his lips burning against hers. She wanted to melt into him, wanted to let herself go and yield happily and helplessly to her yearning.

Sandor pulled his hands away from face and settled back to a seated position in front of her, studying his work. As the focus in his eyes relaxed and retreated, he caught her stare, locking his eyes onto hers. Sansa's breath caught in her chest.

A smile spread about his lips, that same knowing smile which beckoned her heart to beat out of her chest and butterflies to fill her stomach. "What is it, girl? Why are you looking at me like that?"

She wanted to tell him, to tell him how much she longed for his kiss and to be wrapped safe and warm in his arms. More than that, she wished she could show him. Instead, she let her eyes dart down to the ground and muttered the first thing that came to her mind.

"The night has grown chilly. Aren't you cold?"

Sandor chuckled mirthfully and shook his head while lifting himself to his feet. "No, Little Bird. When a man despises fire as much as I do, he becomes accustomed to being cold."

As he retreated away towards the side of the cave to retrieve the saddle bag, Sansa pulled his cloak tightly around her. "You said you were on the Quiet Isle, but how is it that you ended up in the Vale?"

With a low rumble, Sandor cleared his throat as he tossed the saddlebag to the ground in front of him and well away from the fire, his eyes refusing to meet hers. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting under Sansa's gaze, seemingly uncomfortable by the question. A long silence filled the air as Sandor mindlessly stared at the saddlebag in front of him.

"I left the Quiet Isle to seek work in one of the Free Cities as a sell sword. Braavos or Lorath perhaps." Without another word, he sat down on the ground before lying down, bringing his hands to cradle the back of his head which was propped up on the saddlebag.

Something about his answer to her question troubled her. She let the disquiet wash over her, seeking out its source before feeling ridiculous at the realization she was disappointed by his answer. In truth, she had the fantastical and undoubtedly naïve notion that he had come to the Vale to find her, to take her away from Littlefinger, Lothor Brune, Lyn Corbray, Yohn Royce, and anyone else who wished her harm.

Sansa sat silently in a trance as she watched the embers of the fire die down, sacrificing the last of their warmth as the cool darkness of the night crept into the cave, causing her body to be tremble in response.

Suddenly, she became aware that he was watching her, pondering her shivering form and waiting patiently for her to lift her eyes to meet his. Slowly, she complied and let her eyes sweep up to meet his gaze.

"Come here, girl." His voice was a soft, but low rasp.

Unyielding, he eyed her intently, desire heavy in his eyes. Her heart began to beat faster at the sound of his voice, his beckoning for her to come to him. Entranced, her body responded, her legs lifted her to stand and her feet carried her swiftly to his side. As she stood over him, she found she was shaking, electrified by his hands reaching out to take hers. She no longer felt the blistering chill in the air, but rather found that she was burning under her skin, the heat unbound and radiating from her body.

Slowly, he pulled her down so that she was kneeling next to him, his rough hands clasped reassuringly around her trembling hands. Pulling his hands away from hers, he sat up and let his eyes sweep over her face. Reaching out with one hand, Sandor cupped her cheek before slowly letting his fingers interlace with the strands of her hair. For many moments, he gazed longingly at her and she thought he meant to kiss her, somehow reading her thoughts and desires.

However, his other arm reached out until it was firmly hooked around her waist, pulling her until she was flush up against him. He lowered himself to lay back down with Sansa in his arms and pulled his cloak over them. With one of her arms draped over his chest, Sansa settled her head underneath his chin and her body pressed up against his. She sighed softly and contentedly as Sandor wrapped one arm around her shoulder and the other around her waist and drew her closer to him with their legs intertwined.

Sansa savored the way his arms felt wrapped around her and the way she seemingly fit perfectly within his large frame; his strong arms matching the curve of her waist, her head settling easily within the space under his chin, their bodies matching pieces of the same mold. She thought back to the lonely nights in the Eyrie and King's Landing; all those nights she had desperately wished he was there, a desire which manifested and played out in her dreams.

She wanted to ask if she haunted him, the way he had haunted her, if he had yearned for her, the way she yearned for him. For many moments, Sansa fought with herself to ask him these questions, but fear of what his answers may be had stopped her. Finally, the fear gave way to curiosity.

"Sandor?" Her voice came softly from her chest, timid and hesitant.

"Hm?" His voice was a low grumble, roused from the precipice of slumber.

She had half a mind to let him fall back towards sleep, but instead continued on, asking the only question she had the courage to ask.

"Sandor, did you dream of me while you were away, like I dreamt of you?"

A long silence filled the air, making her blood run cold through her veins and desperation to take back the question run frantic through her mind. He heard her, she knew. She could feel his breathing come quicker and his arms around her stiffen. Long moments passed and unbidden tears were forming in her eyes before Sansa felt him breathe in deep, his chest expanding as his lungs drank in the night's air, before releasing his breath with a husky sigh.

"Aye, Little Bird. I dreamt of you while I was away. I dreamt of you long before I ever left King's Landing. I imagine I will dream of you tonight and perhaps the night after this. Now quit your chirping, girl, and get some rest. We have a long way ahead of us."

With her heart soaring and a perpetual smile invading her face, Sansa found that sleep came easily that night with Sandor's arms entwined tightly around her, the steady rise and fall of his chest easing her towards slumber, and the serendipitous thought of a man like Sandor Clegane dreaming of her, a thought which sung her into a sweet sleep.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! Thank you for the lovely comments. They are truly inspiring and I am amazed at the kindness I have received.
> 
> I wrote like a maniac and before I knew it I had amassed close to 45 pages and found I was only half way done with what I had originally intended to cover with this chapter. While I enjoy long chapters, a 90 page chapter would have been a bit too much, I think. It seemed the sensible thing to do was just break the chapter up at what I felt was a good place.
> 
> So what we have here is actually the first half to two thirds of what I had intended for the original chapter seven. Its pace is a bit slower due to the loss of the second part, but it does lay a lot of the ground work for much of what is to come.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

She felt the morning sun bleeding through the window in her modest room, the rays warming the back of her eyelids and illuminating the darkness behind her eyes with radiant crimson and orange hues. With a deep sigh, Brienne slowly yielded to the light of the morning and opened her eyes whilst stretching her sore and tired limbs.

The bed in the chamber was small, barely large enough to contain Brienne's form and forcing her to sprawl diagonally across the straw mattress. Even still, her feet dangled from off the edge of the bed. Despite this, Brienne was thankful to be sleeping amongst the main cluster of buildings on the Quiet Isle.

She had slept deeply, falling into a black void of rest brought on by sheer exhaustion. When she awoke, her head was throbbing and she felt worse for the wear, as if sleeping had been for naught. In truth, Brienne found that sleep was fruitless these days and was something she partook in only when absolutely necessary. She would will herself awake until the heaviness settled stubbornly in her eyelids and her body would finally succumb to rest. For many months, Brienne's slumber was haunted by terrible visions of the shadowy demon that extinguished the life of Renly Baratheon. He had died in her arms as she looked on helplessly, watching the light slowly leave his eyes.

For this reason, Brienne avoided sleep where possible lest she be forced to relive Renly's terrifying and supernatural death. Since coming to the Quiet Isle, her slumber had been dreamless, but this did little to set her waking mind at ease.

The night Sandor Clegane had sought her out resonated within her thoughts, the series of events seeming serendipitous. She had come to the Quiet Isle in search of him, believing him to still be on the run with Arya Stark. To her utter disbelief and astonishment, she found him on the Isle, somberly and methodically digging at the earth in a roughspun robe, the hood pulled up tightly around his face as if to mask his identity.

' _The Hound is dead.' 'Sandor Clegane is at rest.'_ Brienne was beginning to understand the Elder Brother's words. More importantly, she understood the intentions, the subtle unspoken meaning behind them.

The Hound was one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms. His snarling dog helm was fearsome to behold, his hulking form a manifestation of some childhood nightmare. Ruthlessly, he would cut down any man, woman, or child that dared cross him. While he was not as unspeakably cruel as his brother, Gregor, Sandor Clegane was seemingly cut from the same fabric; his rage was pure and unbridled, his temper seething and uncontrolled. Truly, the Hound was a dangerous man.

Brienne had only heard of the Hound's infamy, but never came face-to-face with the man whose reputation preceded him. To her surprise, he had seemed to recognize her as well.  _I suppose my reputation precedes me also. Where all men in the Seven Kingdoms fear the Hound, they mock me as Brienne the Beauty._

From a young age, Brienne had understood her physical abilities as well as the fact that she was not like other girls. She understood she was not meant to fill the role of a typical highborn lady. She was not meant to dress in silks, sing songs of gallant knights and fair maidens, and spend her days delicately stitching summer flowers on pieces of fabric whilst gossiping with the other highborn women. Brienne was a fighter, a warrior, and was driven by a need to serve and protect those who had treated her with kindness. She did not fear battle, for she had grown accustomed to her abilities and entrusted her own protection to the sword at her side.

Brienne had found the Hound lurking outside of her cottage, his notoriously unpredictable rage thick upon him. The man she had sought out had materialized from the darkness to face her. While he was unarmed and unarmored, Brienne found that she was remarkably afraid, her fear threatening to siphon the breath from her lungs.

His size was truly intimidating, more so than she could have ever imagined. Brienne was massive for a woman, she knew, but the Hound stood at least a head taller than her if not more. His body was heavily muscled, thick and strong as a bull. She could scarcely imagine how imposing he must be when fully armored.

To her bewilderment, he had only inquired about Sansa Stark, almost frantically. What more, his hulking form was colored with a tremendous amount of guilt, his eyes fractured with yearning and remorse. Suddenly, Brienne had understood and was beside herself in disbelief. ' _You cared for her.'_

She had seen something of herself in the Hound; the torment he carried with him, the regret at not being able to adequately protect the one thing for which he cared, and the desperate need to forget the pain of it all. The Elder Brother had the right of it; he was no longer the Hound, to be sure; the Hound had never loved nor had he been loved.

_Despite all the cruelty the world had shown him and he had shown the world, the man that stood before me was a man who had found something he could love and was beside himself at its loss._

Indeed, Brienne had understood what she saw gleaming in Sandor Clegane's steely eyes that night and found that her fear had melted away, leaving something quite ponderous in its void.

_Pity. I pitied him. His desperation, his regret, his need, his yearning. I imagine he was a perfect reflection, a congruent image, of what I was when Renly was taken from me._

' _Aye. I cared for her.'_ Those had been his last words, a whisper of a confession spoken to the Gods above as much as they were spoken to Brienne. Without another word, he had spun on his heel, retreating steadfast into the night, leaving Brienne completely confounded.

The next morning, Brienne had made her way to the main cluster of buildings at the center of the Quiet Isle. Seemingly, her face was a mask of perplexity, a transparent veil through which the Elder Brother peered through effortlessly. Solemnly, she relayed the events of the evening to him, sparing no detail.

With his placid expression a curious juxtaposition to her distress, the Elder Brother quietly listened, nodding his understanding reassuringly. After she had finished, many moments of silence passed between her and the Elder Brother. Patiently, she waited while her words seemingly tumbled about his head, his gaze averting dreamily to the ceiling while he rested his chin in his hand.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and resigned. ' _Sandor Clegane has left the Quiet Isle in search of Sansa Stark. I gave him my blessing and sent him on his way.'_

Brienne was agape in disbelief, yet she had had no words in that moment. Instinctively understanding her confusion, the Elder Brother went on to explain his decision, the tone of his voice quietly commanding and subtly definitive.

' _I told you the Hound was dead, but Sandor Clegane was at rest. I spoke those words as truly then as I do now. I urged him to leave his past behind him, to leave the Hound buried and forget the memories of that man's life. If I had understood…If I had known.'_ A strange sadness had been cast about the Elder Brother's face, tingeing his words with sorrow.

' _If you had known what?'_ While the Elder Brother did not explicitly answer her question, Brienne had read between the lines nonetheless

' _The paths of our lives often take curious turns, they are rarely linear. Even still, if we are truly blessed, there are those in our lives who we are infinitely tied to, our paths dance figure eights about one another. We come together, our fates colliding. Perhaps we stay together, or perhaps the Gods above pull us apart, sending each of us pirouetting away in our own direction. Unfailingly, we are propelled back to one another, a Universal force that compels our soul to be drawn to the other. Endlessly, we travel this figure eight. It is our infinite fate.'_

Brienne had been quick to notice that the Elder Brother seemed particularly adamant that she give up the search for Sandor Clegane. Something about his urging had seemed pleading, desperate even. With the Elder Brother's hands folded softly in his lap and the sorrow retreating from his tone, Brienne simultaneously understood the urging she had heard in the Elder Brother's voice and the yearning she had seen gleaming in Sandor Clegane's eyes. ' _Sansa Stark.'_

The Elder Brother had nodded, apparently relieved that she finally could see, could understand what he himself had seen in Sandor. ' _My Lady, it is my belief that Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark's fates are meant to dance figure eights about one another. They have been torn apart, but something tells me they will always find a way back to one another. Nothing that I can do, nothing that you can do will stop that and Gods damn those who try.'_

Even if Brienne had wanted to trail after Sandor Clegane, the journey from the Quiet Isle would have been impossible. A steady downpour of rain had flooded the mudflats and even when the water had receded, the mud would undoubtedly seek to eagerly swallow up the horses' hooves, rendering the pursuit futile. Septon Meribald had pleadingly given his admonition to continue their journey once the mudflats had at least partially dried out.

Her confrontation with Sandor Clegane and the subsequent conversation with the Elder Brother had left Brienne listless, unable to adequately evaluate what the next step of their journey should be. However, Brienne had been quite certain that the sooner they could take their leave from the Quiet Isle, the better. Unanimously, the others seemed to agree.

Brienne's reverie was roused by a gentle rapping at her door, followed by the hesitant stammering of Podrick Payne.

"S-ser? My Lady?"

Given the extension of their stay on the Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother had insisted that Brienne rest in one of the modest quarters within the main cluster of buildings. While she had been quite thankful, Brienne found that Podrick was persistently underfoot. She hadn't truly minded and had found it rather endearing. However, she had come to relish the quiet moments she found to herself.

The knocking at her door became more persistent and Podrick had seemingly found his voice, for it permeated through her door more assertively.

"Ser. My Lady. You must come quick. There are travelers heading across the mudflats and approaching the Isle."

In an instant, Brienne was on her feet, crossing the room in hurried strides to gather up  _Oathkeeper_  and haphazardly throw on what pieces of armor she could.  _The mudflats are nothing to trifle with, especially after an autumn storm. Anybody who dares to brave them is coming here with a purpose._

Brienne was none too eager to find out the nature of that purpose, amicable or not. With a heavy pull, she yanked the door open to find Podrick staring up at her, eyes wide and skin ashen. As she swept her heavy cloak over her shoulders, they began steadfast down the corridor.

"How many travelers did you spot?"

She feared the worst. Perhaps the outlaws who scavenged the Saltpans had made their way to the Quiet Isle. If that were the case, there could be a dozen men or more. Brienne knew not how many Brothers had come to settle on the Quiet Isle, but she doubted many could fend off the likes of those who had terrorized the Saltpans.

Podrick struggled to keep up with her; taking his steps double time to match Brienne's fixed pace.

"It's hard to tell Ser, My Lady. They are still quite a ways out. The best I could gather is two. They are astride one horse though."

Brienne sighed out a deep breath of relief and let the tension flee her body, but was instantaneously perplexed.  _Two riders, but one horse. Why would they be astride the same horse?_

As they pushed through the outer door and into the biting chilliness of the morning, she spotted the Elder Brother with his hands cupped over his brow, shielding the sun from his eyes. Septon Meribald stood next to him, his arms crossed over his chest and his head shaking in excited disbelief at what he saw.

Brienne approached tentatively and fell in softly by the Elder Brother's side, her presence doing little to distract his fervid focus on the approaching travelers. Straining her eyes against the sun, Brienne could make out the darkened form on the horizon, the brooding silhouette of a massive horse with two riders astride just as Podrick had told her. With the oppressive rays of the sun all but blinding her vision, Brienne failed to make out much more. She shifted uncomfortably before turning to the Elder Brother.

"I suppose you were not expecting visitors. How long have they been approaching?"

The Elder Brother inclined his gaze to Brienne and gave a tense half smile before shrugging his shoulders.

"Seldom do we receive visitors to the Isle. In that sense, all visitors are rather unexpected. I know not how long these travelers have been advancing towards the Isle. Septon Meribald spotted them long before I did."

Brienne shifted her eyes towards Septon Meribald who was petting Dog behind the ears and watching the approaching travelers quite placidly. She assumed he hadn't heard her inquiry to the Elder Brother, but before she could reiterate the question he laughed merrily and patted Dog on the head, almost proudly. The animal happily responded by gently licking the Septon's fingers.

"Dog was the one who truly spotted them! I awoke not long before dawn and came out to watch the sunrise. The travelers were nothing more than a speck on the horizon at that point. Dog saw them nonetheless. I all but assumed every soul in the Seven Kingdoms was awoken by his incessant barking!"

By Brienne's estimation the sun had been up no more than three hours. The travelers had meandered to the midway point between the span of the horizon behind them and the shore of the Quiet Isle in front of them.

Mimicking the Elder Brother, Brienne cupped her brow with one hand, shielding the blinding glare of the sun. "At their pace, they should reach the Isle by noon."

For another hour, Brienne watched the horizon with the Elder Brother at her side. The sun had retreated behind a cluster of thick grey clouds, casting shadows about the travelers as they drew closer, offering small details of their identities. The horse was larger than a destier, but smaller than a stallion. A cloaked man held the reins whilst keeping his head down, the second rider was hidden behind his massive form.

Brienne turned to the Elder Brother as he studied the riders intently, eagerly trying to puzzle out their identity.

"Do you recognize the rider?"

With an exasperated sigh, the Elder Brother crossed his arms about his chest.

"What I recognize is that courser, a fickle creature he is. More a beast from one of the Seven hells than a horse! Stranger, his master called him, a blasphemous name, to be sure. The fiend nearly bit my hand off! My lady, there is only one man in the Seven Kingdoms that can tame a horse like that."

She had known before the Elder Brother said anything. The understanding that passed between them was mutual and implicit.

"Sandor Clegane." His name escaped her mouth in whisper.

The Elder Brother nodded his head softly before uncrossing his arms and clasping his hands in front of him.

"Aye, my Lady."

Shifting her head slightly, Brienne squinted her eyes at the horizon in an effort to glimpse the other traveler. Her efforts were futile and the glare of the reemerging sun was exacerbating the pounding in her head.

"And the second rider?"

The Elder Brother tilted his head towards her with a knowing smile spread about his face.

"Splendid question. Perhaps a highborn maiden, three-and-ten with auburn hair and a fair face."

Brienne understood the unspoken words that accompanied his smile. '… _something tells me they will always find a way back to one another. Nothing that I can do, nothing that you can do will stop that and Gods damn those who try.'_

Adjusting her vision towards the horizon once more, Brienne did not doubt that Sandor Clegane was one of the riders; not many men were as physically imposing as he. The only thing she could make out of the other rider was two tiny arms wrapped tightly around the Hound's broad chest, clutching tightly at his cloak. She shook her head in deliberate disbelief and stared intently at the Elder Brother.

"It's impossible. He could not have found her so quickly while others have spent months searching for her, only to come up empty handed."

Septon Meribald released his grasp on Dog who eagerly galloped off gaily towards the shore of the Isle, anxious to greet the travelers. Clasping Brienne lightly on the shoulder, the Septon came to stand next to her.

"Lady Brienne, the Gods work their wonders in mysterious ways. Meager as we are, it is not for us to question what is possible."

As Sandor reached the shore, Brienne saw that Stranger's legs were caked with mud and the beast was panting in exhaustion. As Dog approached Stranger barking, the horse retorted with annoyed grunts.

In swift, hurried paces, the Elder Brother approached Sandor as he swung from his horse and pulled the hood of his cloak down, eying Brienne and Septon Meribald dubiously.

Chuckling, the Elder Brother extended his arms to the Hound as if trying to dissipate the rising tension.

"Clegane, your return to the Isle is most welcome, but admittedly comes much sooner than I would have imagined. And I see you have something quite precious in tow with you."

Protectively, Sandor gazed up at the girl, his mouth curling in a half-smile.

"Aye. Elder Brother, I present to you the Lady Sansa Stark."

A delicate hand emerged from underneath the girl's cloak and extended towards the Elder Brother as she nodded her head. Her voice was soft and sweet as spring.

"My lord, it is truly a pleasure."

Delighted, the Elder Brother took her hand in his and kissed it lightly.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Sansa."

Weary as the girl was, Sansa Stark was extraordinarily beautiful. As she pulled down her hood, a thick bundle of soft auburn curls fell to her waist, framing her slender form. Lady Catelyn had modestly attested to Sansa's beauty, but Brienne knew the Hound was right; 'fair of face' was scarcely adequate to describe the young woman Brienne was seeing for the first time. Sansa had the same Tully blue eyes and porcelain skin as her mother and was every bit as gentle as Catelyn had described her.

Brienne watched as Sandor easily wrapped his hands around Sansa's waist and pulled her carefully from the saddle, carrying her the rest of the way to shore before placing her softly on the ground. Tall as she was, Sansa looked like a doll in his arms.

As Sandor retreated back to collect Stranger, Sansa came to stand in front of Brienne, looking up at her wide eyed in wonderment before letting her eyes flee away in apparent embarrassment. Brienne smiled softly to herself.  _She thinks she has offended me._

Bending at the waist, Brienne bowed politely. "Lady Sansa, Brienne of Tarth. I am pleased to meet you."

As Sansa's mouth opened slightly in a gape of confusion, Sandor came up next to her and rested one hand heavily on her shoulder.

"The Maid of Tarth fancies herself a knight. Don't let that fool you, Little Bird. She's a highborn lady, just like you."

_It seems he is every bit as insolent as before._ Brienne forced a tense smile as she inclined her head to meet Sandor's eyes with an icy glare.

"Lord Clegane, I am glad to see you have made your journey safely. If I may inquire, what brings you back to the Isle so soon?"

With his mouth contorting to something between a smile and a snarl, Sandor snorted his contempt and laughed darkly.

"What is it with you highborns and your bloody courtesies?"

Before Brienne could bitterly mutter her response, Septon Meribald interjected with arms flailing, filling the space between Brienne and Sandor.

"Come now! No need for quarreling. Podrick, be a good lad and see to it that Clegane's horse is stabled."

A tiny gasp simultaneously caught Brienne and Sandor's attention as they turned their heads in unison towards Sansa who was eying Podrick Payne with wide eyes.

"Payne. Podrick Payne…you…you were…I know you." Her voice was soft and gentle, scarcely above a whisper as if she hadn't truly meant to breathe life into her private thoughts.

Blushing, Podrick nodded timidly, apparently flustered by the sudden attention that had been brought on him. Wordlessly, he averted his gaze and set about the task to which he had been bid.

Septon Meribald smiled gleefully, apparently unaware of Sansa's connection to Podrick Payne. "You know this boy, my Lady? Ah, what a wonderful surprise! Pray tell, how do you know one another?"

Sansa's eyes fluttered towards Sandor as she uncomfortably searched for her words. While she reckoned she would pay for it later, Brienne did not waste the opportunity to subtly jab at Sandor.

"Podrick was the squire to Lady Sansa's husband. That is before Tyrion vanished." Brienne could feel Sandor's glare piercing through her, his smoldering fury threatening to burn her alive. She dared not meet his stare.

Keenly aware of the mounting tension, the Elder Brother cleared his throat and stepped briskly towards Sansa, taking her hands in his.

"My lady, you must be famished. Come, let us share a meal together. We have much to discuss, to be sure."

As the Elder Brother looped his arm in Sansa's and led her away with Septon Meribald gleefully following, Brienne stood firmly in front of Sandor, locking her eyes fiercely on his and blocking his attempt to follow after Sansa.

As Sandor pushed passed her, she grabbed him by the forearm suddenly. "How did it come to be that you found her so quickly?"

Irate at her boldness, Sandor yanked his arm away from her grasp while abruptly turning on his heel to face her and growling out a response.

"What the fuck does that matter? She's safe now, that's all that I am concerned with."

Before she could respond, he started off once again towards the main cluster of buildings. Brienne knew if she was wise, she would let him sulk off. The weariness from travel had clearly shortened his already flaring temper. However, the thought of a gentle creature like Sansa Stark entrusted to a brooding beast like Sandor Clegane had left Brienne unsettled, to say the least. Boldly, she paced after him, bellowing her response.

"Safe. Is she truly? I see Sansa has quite a gash on her forehead. Perhaps you can at least tell me how  _that_  came to be."

As she had anticipated, Sandor stopped in midstride and balled his hands into tight fists, the anger permeating from his body in waves. With a few frenzied paces, Sandor flew towards Brienne. Instantly, she knew she had gone too far.

Squeezing her chin, he jerked her face up roughly to meet his, forcing her to look at the burned mass of flesh that made up the left side of his face.

"Look at me! Do you see this?"

She nodded her head weakly before wriggling free of his grasp. Sandor's eyes were burning with fury as he began again, his breath hitting the skin of her face in hot bursts as he spat his words.

"Tell me truly, wench. What do you see when you look upon the ruin of my face? A monster? When I was a child, my brother held my face over hot coals of a fire. There's a monster for you. The pain was unimaginable as my flesh melted away. For months after, I could still feel the burning. Death would have been cleaner, quicker."

Relenting, Sandor took a step away from her, but kept his angry gaze locked upon her. Brienne's hand came up to clutch her jaw as her fingers gently massaged away the pain. Hesitantly she muttered her response, mindful not to trigger the Hound's temper once again.

"What does this have to do with Sansa?"

Sandor let his eyes fall to the ground as his voice lowered to a soft rasp.

"Everything. I would gladly let my prick of a brother do the same to the other side of my face before I would ever lay a hand on Sansa."

In an instant, his eyes flew up again to meet hers, the rage once again settling there as he spew his words hatefully.

"If you ever suggest otherwise, wench, I'll cut your heart out while you sleep."

With that, Sandor retreated from Brienne, once again leaving her dumbfounded at the irony of his vile words which mingled in juxtaposition with the profound affection for Sansa that gleamed crystalline in his eyes.

* * *

Sandor let out a huff of annoyance as Stranger struggled to pull his hooves from the thick stickiness of mud which begrudgingly released its hold with a popping sound. While the water had receded enough to ensure safe passage to the Quiet Isle, the mudflats had eagerly soaked up the rain from the recent storm, making the journey painstakingly slow and forcing Sandor to lead Stranger methodically towards the Isle, carefully calculating each step.

With her arms wrapped tightly around him and her head buried nervously in his back, Sansa had been quiet much of the journey, leaving Sandor adrift in his own thoughts. He had awoken the previous morning with the Little Bird entangled in his arms, strands of her hair fanning out behind her and tickling the skin of his arms.

True to his word, he had dreamed of her the night before, but his dreams had been strange and haunting. He had been holding Sansa safely in his arms as a consuming darkness encroached upon them. As if manipulated by some unknown force, the darkness shifted and came to surround them, the light slowly extinguished until nothing remained. Gradually, Sansa faded away into the soulless shadows as Sandor clutched to her tightly, desperately trying to hold onto her as she disappeared in his arms. Frantically, he had searched for her, stumbling through the murky vapor which blinded him.

As the light of the morning crept into the cave, he awoke panic-stricken, half expecting her to be gone, prophetically ripped from his arms as if his nightmares had come to life. Sansa shifted slightly, pressing herself against him, and he could feel his skin absorbing her warmth as it soothed away his fears. Unwilling to let the moment pass, Sandor had held her there, letting his arm settle easily into the curve of her waist and watched the gentle rising and falling of her chest as she took soft breaths, her lips curling slightly in a placid smile. He pondered what he had done to deserve this moment; the Little Bird tucked safely in his arms, her body pressed against his seeking his warmth and the comfort she seemed to find there.

Rather than spoil the moment with musings over his worthiness, Sandor resigned himself to stillness until he felt Sansa turn on her other side so that she was facing him. With a sleepy smile, she had sat up and clutched her lower back, massaging out the soreness with her slender fingers.

As they had broke their fast with a meager ration of stale bread and hard cheese, she meekly asked a few pointed questions as to where they were heading, seemingly anticipating another curt response from him. The subtle shyness of her inquiries and the way she softly let her eyes fall to the ground had quelled any apprehension Sandor had about revealing his plans to her.

He had explained as much as he could; the need to avoid the Saltpans, the Riverlands, and now the greater part of the Vale. To his surprise, she had intrinsically understood their predicament, nodding her head with a furrowed brow before taking his hands in hers. Her words had floored him, leaving him breathless and dumbfounded. With a soft, playful smile and the confidence of a woman, she had taken his hands in her own and stared intently into his eyes, speaking her words slowly and deliberately.  _'I trust you, Sandor.'_

As they approached ever nearer to the Quiet Isle, Sandor began to shift uncomfortably in the saddle at the remembrance of her words. Though subtle and sweet, those few simple words left him reeling and had put the weight of the world on his shoulders, or so it felt.  _She trusts you, Dog. The cunning Petry Baelish, the powerful Yohn Royce… They had both offered her protection and could have provided it. Yet she trusts you…_

In King's Landing, he had wanted to protect her, to shield her from Joffrey's maniacal moods, to guard her from Ser Meryn's blows. However, he had desperately wanted to make her see that knights were not always so gallant and maidens were not always so virtuous, that life isn't a song and certainly isn't always fair. Rather than gently lift the veil from her eyes, he had torn it off, roughly meeting her quiet courtesies with vile words and harsh realities. Gentleness was not something Sandor was acquainted with and despite his intentions, he found that filling her with fear was the only way he knew how to get through to her.

_'I trust you, Sandor.'_ He searched his mind, sorted through his memories, to find something,  _anything_ , which would warrant Sansa's trust. Painfully, but to no surprise, he came up with nothing. Even when he had offered to take her with him from King's Landing, to protect her and keep her safe, a sincere gesture which he had planned to make good on, he had done so drunkenly and with a knife to her throat.  _I have done nothing to earn her trust, yet she gives it to me, unquestioning and unconditionally._

With the sun gradually hovering behind them and restoring the acuteness of his vision, Sandor's internal brooding was interrupted as he spotted the forms of three individuals on the shore of the Isle. Intently and patiently, they were awaiting their approach.  _We are being watched._ Sandor snorted an annoyed laugh. He could have guessed as much; it wasn't as if they could approach the Isle inconspicuously.

As they neared the shore of the Isle, Sandor began to recognize the forms, picking out the distinguishing features of each and presuming their identity. Amongst the individuals, Sandor spotted a massive armored form with a mop of sandy blonde hair.  _Bloody hell. The maid of Tarth._

Sandor was none too pleased to see that she had remained at the Isle. His blood began to boil at the thought that she might mean to collect Sansa and fulfill her precious oath by taking her back to King's Landing, to Jamie Lannister.

The anger succumbed to panic at the heaviness of the thought and the frenzied internal suggestion that he may have made a dreadful mistake by bringing Sansa to the Isle. His thoughts were jarred as the Septon Meribald's yapping dog pranced up to Stranger. The horse mimicked Sandor's irritation and snorted out a growling warning with a simultaneous flickering of his tail.

Walking a few paces from shore and standing in ankle deep water, the Elder Brother quite literally welcomed them with open arms, understanding Sandor's trepidation as easily as he understood so much that Sandor left unspoken. Sandor had forgotten the eerie way in which the man seemed to peer right through to the center of Sandor's being, as if his flesh and bones were made of glass, the transparency making even the darkest parts of his soul fully accessible.

Sandor had all but expected the Elder Brother's greeting. It was Brienne that concerned him. The wench eyed him and Sansa warily and Sandor could seemingly read her thoughts as her suspicious stare shifted mechanically back and forth from Sansa to him and back again.

As if blithely ignorant of the shortness of his temper and the foulness of his mood, Brienne had boldly confronted Sandor about the gash on Sansa's forehead, all but suggesting she had suffered the wound by his hands. His vision had filled red with rage and his blood had begun to run hot through his body. The wench knew his trigger all too well, profoundly aware of how to rile him. Agitated as he was, he understood her concern was warranted.  _I've lived my life by the sword, killed viciously, and have done little and less to redeem myself. The wench is not the first nor will she be the last to question my intent with the Little Bird._

He was not in the mood to entertain questions and offer up explanations. Exhausted from the journey, Sandor wanted nothing more than a flagon of wine to ease him off into a dreamless slumber. Much to his chagrin, the Elder Brother had insisted that they share a meal and had taken a compliant Sansa by the arm, whisking her away towards the main cluster of buildings.

As Sandor paced down the corridor towards the Elder Brother's solar, a man fell in abruptly at his side, matching Sandor's pace. He looked to be knight by the armor he wore and the arrogant way in which he carried himself, head held high and a hand resting heedlessly on the pommel of the sword at his side.

His body tensing instinctively, Sandor clenched his fists before turning his icy stare towards the man as they continued down the corridor. While the man was at least a head shorter than him, he looked to be of an age with Sandor. His plain face was framed with a mop of brown hair and adorned with a light scar near his left ear.  _This man has seen battle._

Undaunted by his sneering glare, the man inclined his head to meet Sandor with a derisive smile plastered to his face.

"Lest my eyes betray me, you are none other than Sandor Clegane. Of all places in the Seven Kingdoms, this was the last I expected to find the likes of you. Last I heard, you turned craven during the Battle of the Blackwater. Such a pity! King Joffrey was all but giving away knighthoods and land to those who fought bravely and even to some who did not fight so bravely. Had you stayed, you may have finally earned your  _Ser._ "

Sandor narrowed his eyes at the man, both stunned and irked at his gall.  _All too easily I could make this bastard bleed. He's provoking me for a reason._

"I don't need a fucking  _Ser_ in front of my name. Who the hell are you?" His voice emerged as a low growl, but did little to throttle the man's brazenness.

The man feigned astonishment and lifted his hands in the air waving, a mocking suggestion that he meant no harm. "If I have given offense, I do apologize. I rather fancy the  _Ser_ in front of my name." The man cleared his throat as he gave a sardonic bow. "Ser Hyle Hunt of the Reach, if it please you."

Sandor snorted his laughter before tightly wrapping his hand around the pommel of his own sword, conveying a clear message that he was in no mood for the man's jeering banter.

"Spare me. I remember you. You're here with the wench."

Stopping in front of the Elder Brother's solar door, Ser Hyle turned towards Sandor, the taunting smile about his face in stark contrast to the spitefulness that flickered in his eyes. "Careful now. The Maid of Tarth may fancy herself a knight, but let me assure you, she has all the sensitivity of any other maiden. We wouldn't want her getting all worked up over your bark, would we Hound?"

With that Ser Hyle pushed through the door and sauntered into the room, plucking an apple from a humble fruit bowl at the end of the table. Tossing the apple in the air, he paced towards Sansa who was seated to the right of the Elder Brother. "Lady Sansa, it is true pleasure to meet you."

Instantaneously, her eyes widened as she gave Sandor a frantic and bemused look before uncomfortably shifting in her seat and hesitantly turning towards Ser Hyle.

"How...how is it that you know who I am?"

Taking Sansa's hand in his own, the knight bowed steeply and left a lingering kiss on her delicate fingers.

"Your beauty is renowned in the Seven Realms, my Lady. I only need to look upon your loveliness to know you could be none other than the stunning Sansa Stark."

Sandor rolled his eyes and snorted his laughter. To Sandor's amusement, the Little Bird pulled her hand away in disgust, discomfort written across her face as she wiped the man's spittle from her hand.  _Even Sansa Stark, the Queen of Courtesies, is put off by this prick._

As he took his seat next to Sansa, Ser Hyle bit into the apple, chewing loudly while casually settling into his chair and turning towards Sansa. Saying nothing, the man obnoxiously leered at her, letting his eyes wander up and down her form.

With his mood darkening considerably, Sandor took his seat to the left of the Elder Brother, directly across from Sansa who was eying him desperately, as if silently pleading for him to intervene. Instinctively, Sandor felt his hands curl into clenched fists, his jaw set into an angry scowl.  _The bugger doesn't need to say anything. I know what he's thinking._

Sandor glared valyrian daggers across the table at Ser Hyle who seemingly felt the stare and cocked his head away from Sansa, locking his eyes on Sandor's in an instigative stare that matched the intensity of Sandor's. Ser Hyle's mouth curled in a devilish half smile before turning back towards Sansa, lewdly licking the juices of the apple off of his lips. Sandor's eyes widened in rage, his vision blurring into a veil of red.  _The fucker is testing me._

Overcome with a rush of fury, Sandor flew from his seat and unsheathed his sword in one swift movement, his breath coming out in seething bursts of anger. In tandem, Ser Hyle pushed from his seat, his chair flinging behind him at the force, and pulled his sword from his side. Sandor held the man's stare before hissing out a warning through clenched teeth.

"You had best believe me when I say this to you. I will cut your fucking eyes out with my sword and feed them to the Septon's dog before I let you look at her like that again."

Protectively, the Elder Brother reached for Sansa, pulling her chair closer to his and letting out an exasperated grunt, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. Before he could bellow in protest, Brienne and Podrick filed into the room slowly, their faces agape in confusion and trepidation.

Behind them was Septon Meribald who shook his head in disdain at the sight of unsheathed swords and the thick layer of tension that had come to fill the room.

"Good Gods! I had not realized I was attending a sortie!"

Rubbing his forehead in vexation, the Elder Brother spoke commandingly, his words biting and the irritation thick in his voice.

"Both of you put up your swords! Everyone take a seat. There is much to be discussed. If you two want to evaluate who's the bigger man, you can do so on your own time."

Slowly, the Little Bird let her eyes wander up to his, biting her lip to halt its gentle trembling. It was not the brusqueness of the Elder Brother's words that beckoned Sandor to sheath his sword, but rather the fear and confusion that had flooded her eyes.

As Sandor took his seat once again, the Elder Brother offered a stern warning whilst eying Sandor and Ser Hyle with uncertainty, the tension in his voice subsiding slightly. "Whatever your differences may be, put them aside. I will not stand for any boyish quarrelling and certainly no swords will be drawn."

With a deep sigh and the pallor of his face retreating to normal shade, the Elder Brother shifted slightly in his seat towards Sansa, the features of his face softening to a sympathetic gaze.

"Lady Sansa, if you would be so kind, I must ask you the question that is undoubtedly on all of our minds; how exactly did it come to be that you and Clegane found one another?"

Biting her bottom lip, Sansa swept her gaze from the Elder Brother to everyone seated about the table, timidly contemplating each individual before settling her eyes passively on Sandor. Gently, he nodded his head, silently offering her the reassurance he had sensed she needed to continue.

Softly, she began relaying the events much as she had relayed them to him, explaining her time at the Eyrie with Littlefinger, her subsequent escape with Yohn Royce followed by their confrontation with Lothor Brune. As Sansa continued on, her words became more deliberate, her voice thickening from a hesitant whisper to pointed divulging as she seemingly found her confidence.

She spared no detail of her journey save one. Peculiarly, it was the same detail she had failed to relay to him, a detail that he along with everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms was eager to know.  _It seems the Little Bird does not wish to discuss how she escaped King's Landing._

The night he came upon Sansa, there were a hundred or more questions Sandor had wanted to ask her; questions that necessity dictated he should have asked her. Yet they had somehow melted from his mind when he took her in his arms. In that moment, he found that he didn't need words and he didn't need questions answered. What he had needed was her, wrapped in his arms where she was meant to be. And so he had let the question of how she escaped from King's Landing slip away along with about a hundred other questions he had wanted to ask her.

Sandor's musing was roused as Sansa finished answering the Elder Brother's question, lifting her gaze to him and smiling softly.

"And that's how we quite literally came colliding together. As you probably know, Sandor was on his way to Braavos to find work as a sellsword. I was fleeing into the night, into an unknown future and that's how he found me, as extraordinary as it seems."

Abruptly, Sandor's attention was jarred as he felt the muscles in his body tense and instinctively averted his gaze away from Sansa lest she find the truth buried in his eyes. Instead, Sandor met the Elder Brother's berating stare. Despite the man's obvious displeasure, a silent understanding seemingly passing between them for the Elder Brother stayed reticent, his lips pressed together tightly. To Sandor's astonishment, Brienne echoed the Elder Brother's sentiment. Skeptically, she stared at Sandor and for a moment he thought she meant to reveal his lie. Instead, she let her eyes fall to her hands resting on the table as a steady silence filled the room.

He had lied to Sansa in order to avoid explaining the real reason why he had come upon her in the Vale. With a fervid desperation he had wanted to tell her, to let it all unravel before her. He had wanted to tell her that in a frenzy he had left the Quiet Isle in search of her, tell her that she haunted his dreams, tell her that despite the Elder Brother's admonition to leave his past behind, he refused to let her go, tell her that he had never imagined he would find her, but was content to spend the rest of his days trying.

Sandor had wanted to tell her everything there was to tell, but something had stopped him and so the lie had manifested on his lips, breathed to life by his fear or perhaps his pride; whether the former or the latter, he did not know. What he did know was that he had somehow felt compelled to lie to her and in this moment, with the others looking on, he may have to face that lie and face her.

To Sandor's relief, the thick blanket of silence was interrupted by the uncertain stammering of Podrick who was seated next to Brienne yet had managed to remain all but invisible; Sandor had hardly remembered the timid boy was in the room.

"M-my Lady. For quite some time I have been searching for your lord husband. That is how I came into the Lady Brienne's service. You left King's Landing before Lord Tyrion vanished, but do you happen to know his whereabouts now?"

Sandor pondered the boy as he tentatively spoke his words, obviously terrified of Sansa and the sound of his own voice coming tremulous and squeaking out of his lanky adolescent body. However, the boy had proved his merit during the Battle of the Blackwater, saving the Imp from a certain death by cutting down Ser Mandon Moore. Watching the boy blushing a deep shade of crimson and stumbling over his words, Sandor couldn't help but smile at the irony.  _The boy fought bravely in the same battle that I deserted as a craven._

Sansa smiled sympathetically at Podrick before shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Podrick. I am afraid I do not know what became of Tyrion." At that Podrick sighed in disappointment and resignation before settling back into his seat, seemingly willing himself to become invisible yet again.

A look of confusion flashed across Brienne's face as she cocked her head to the side to address Sansa.

"My Lady, it was thought that Tyrion helped arrange your escape from King's Landing. If this is not so, how then did you manage to leave the city? The confusion surrounding Joffrey's death must have aided you, but surely you did not act alone."

Intrigued, Sandor eyed Sansa, eagerly awaiting an answer to the question that had lingered in the back of his mind yet had gone unasked. The others mirrored his anticipation as their stares settled on the Little Bird whose breath was coming ragged, her eyes anxiously fleeting about the faces all looking on her in steady unison.

With a deep breath, Sansa began, refusing to meet anyone's eyes and instead stared at her hands folded nervously in her lap. Her voice had retreated back to weakness, no longer possessing the same confidence as before.

"No, Lady Brienne. I did not act alone. Ser Dontos Hollard arranged my escape at the behest of Petyr Baelish."

Her eyes flashed hesitantly up to Sandor's, weighing his reaction to her words. She would find no solace there, he knew, for his face had hardened to a stoic slate of inexpressiveness. Apprehensively, she began again with her voice quivering.

"Ser Dontos brought me to Littlefinger the night of Joffrey's wedding. He thought he was selling me to Littlefinger. Instead, he was killed by crossbowmen at Lothor Brune's command. It is from there that I came into Littlefinger's possession."

Sandor's mind wandered back to his conversation with Brienne the night he left the Isle. She had told him that Ser Dontos escaped King's Landing the same night Sansa had and that it was thought they escaped together. Sandor had been almost certain that even Sansa Stark wouldn't have been foolish enough to entrust her safety to the drunk. With Sansa's head hung in shame and refusing to meet his now furious glare, Sandor knew he had been gravely mistaken.

"Seven bloody hells, Sansa! You honestly thought that fucking drunken fool was going to help you escape from King's Landing?" Unwittingly, Sandor pounded his fists on the table as the rage boiled hot through his veins.

The thought of Sansa willingly agreeing to escape King's Landing with Dontos the Drunk infuriated him. As he allowed the anger to wash over him, Sandor quickly realized that his rage was not rooted in the fact that Sansa had entrusted herself to a fool.

Rather, the fury burning through him was brought forth by the thought that he had offered to take Sansa from King's Landing, an offer which she refused. Although loathe to admit it, her refusal had affected him deeply. Sandor had replayed that night a thousand times over. Admittedly, a string of mistakes on his part had likely prevented her from leaving with him. He had drunkenly stumbled into her bedchamber and subsequently held a knife to her throat and threatened her life for a song.

Suddenly, a startling realization flooded Sandor's mind, a realization that he had not considered until this moment, a realization that quelled his anger and left a wave of guilt in its place.

_I threaten to cut out another man's eyes for looking at her, yet how often do I leer at her? I fly into a rage at the thought of her letting another man take her from King's Landing, but was I not a drunken fool when I stumbled into her bed chamber, wanting to take her with me?_

_She never feared Ser Dontos the way she feared me. Slobbering, drunken fool he may have been, I doubt he held a knife to her throat, threatened her life, and forced a song. All things considered, two drunken fools offered to take her from King's Landing. She picked the safer of the two._

Sandor let the anger retreat from his body through deep breaths as Sansa stared at him, tears welling up in her eyes, apparently wounded by the brusqueness of his words.

Another uncomfortable silence hung in the air before the Elder Brother rested his chin on steepled fingers, contemplating his words before breaking the lull with a deep sigh.

"It makes no matter now so there is scarcely a reason to dredge up the past. What matters now is that Sansa is safe." The man smiled softly at Sansa before shifting in his chair such that he faced Sandor.

"Clegane, you are welcome on the Isle for as long as you require. However, I am intrigued to know what your next course of action will be."

Irritated, Sandor felt his chest tighten as his mind raced to find an answer.  _It seems it is now my turn to answer uncomfortable questions._ If he had known the answer to the Elder Brother's question, he would not have needed to make the journey to the Quiet Isle. Instead, he would have gone wherever he needed to go, wherever he thought he could keep the Little Bird safe. Out of frustration and exhaustion, Sandor gave up the guise and divulged his own truth.

"Seven Hells if I know! The Riverlands are overrun with outlaws and broken men taking up their own causes. As if I wasn't already wanted for deserting during battle, some buggering bastard donned my helm before plundering the Saltpans. Travel to the west is nearly impossible. And now every knight of the Vale is undoubtedly looking for Sansa, barring our path to the north and the east."

Sandor stared at Sansa, awaiting his turn to scrutinize her reaction to his words, searching out the regret and disapproval he imagined would be drawn across her face. Instead she lifted her eyes softly to meet his and gave him a sympathetic smile, the corners of her lips gently lifting as her eyes filled with something akin to compassionate understanding.

_'I trust you, Sandor.'_ In this moment, her eyes matched the words she had spoken. Suddenly, Sandor felt the weight of the world come crashing down upon him as a suffocating flush of guilt consumed him.

"I'm sorry, Little Bird. I plucked you from the Vale and yet I have no idea where we are headed. Perhaps Ser Dontos the fucking Drunk was a better option after all. At least the bastard had the foresight to involve Littlefinger, the master of schemes and plans."

Sandor snorted laughter as he shook his head, desperately trying to drive away the weight of defeat he felt. To his bewilderment, again she smiled at him, sweetly offering him the reassurance he felt completely unworthy of.

As she opened her mouth gently to voice her response, Ser Hyle leaned forward in his seat and turned towards the Elder Brother, his face contorting into a mocking expression of confusion.

"Elder Brother, you say the Lady Sansa is now safe. Perhaps that may be true as long as she remains on the Quiet Isle. If I may be so bold, the Hound is a vicious killer, a Lannister dog turned craven. No one in the Seven Kingdoms would dispute that. What more, the man hardly has any idea how to protect the Lady and keep her safe from those who wish her harm."

The Elder Brother scowled disapprovingly at Ser Hyle, his displeasure folded heavy in his furrowed brow. Sandor felt the temperature in his blood rise once more as his temper flared. Had Sandor not held the Elder Brother is such high regard, he would have flown from his chair with sword drawn and finished the life of the pathetic prick. Instead, he sat seething in his chair, his fists clenched so tight that he felt his fingernails piercing the rough skin of his palms.

Ser Hyle shifted cavalierly in his seat such that he was facing Sansa who met his stare with a sideways glance that inferred her dismay at the turn in the conversation. As the knight leaned forward in his seat, the Little Bird leaned back in hers, putting as much space between them as possible. With a husky voice and lustful eyes, the man began, clearly undaunted by Sansa's repulsion.

"My Lady, I implore you to allow me to be your protector. Unlike the Hound, I am not a wanted man in the Seven Kingdoms. We could travel through the Riverlands and the Vale unscathed. In fact, I could bring you to Maidenpool. My liege lord remains there with his banners and I can assure you that you would be safe. Entrust your life into my hands, sweet Lady Sansa, and I promise no harm will come to you."

The words flowed like honey from the man's lips yet what gleamed in his eyes set Sandor's soul at a fervid unease. With his breaths coming ragged from his body at Ser Hyle's declarations, Sandor felt every muscle in his body become tense until he was shaking with a fury like he had never known before. Before he could hiss out a retort through clenched teeth, Brienne interjected, her sapphire eyes wide with her sort of annoyed anger.

"Ser Hyle, have you lost your senses? If you bring Sansa to Maidenpool, Randyll Tarly will collect her quick as a wink and turn her over to Cersei. Surely, you are not foolish enough to believe she would be safe there."

The Elder Brother rested his elbows on the table with a thud as he pressed his fingers to his temples as if driving away an impending headache.

"I agree with Lady Brienne. Maidenpool is out of the question. However, Clegane speaks truly; the Riverlands are far too dangerous for Lady Sansa to be traveling through. The outlaws are certainly nothing to trifle with. As I said, you may stay here as long as you require, but the mudflats offer limited protection against scavengers and outlaws. Once they dry up, I fear you may not be as safe here as you might think."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sandor caught sight of Sansa shifting uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes setting in an uncharacteristically impassible stare which moved steadily around the table as each person seemingly felt compelled to offer their opinion.

As he cleared his throat with a grumbling cough, Septon Meribald lifted his index finger, as if declaring his turn to speak and preemptively silencing anyone who wished to talk over him.

"I do believe that  _nowhere_  in the Seven Kingdoms would be adequately safe for the Lady. The best option, in my humble opinion, would be one of the free cities. The reach of the Iron Throne can only extend so far and I have found it stops abruptly at the narrow sea."

Unbeknownst to Sansa, Sandor watched her carefully as she fidgeted in her seat, her mouth hardening into a closed lip scowl, the aggravation engulfing her face as she stared at Septon Meribald through narrowed eyes. The rising and falling of her chest quickened in time with her exasperated breaths as the color of her face darkened to a shade of red; not the gentle blushing that usually graced her face but rather the flush of anger that caused the blood to course hot through her body.

While Sandor was all too familiar with his own feelings of rage, he had never seen Sansa get angry, not truly. In the weeks after her father's execution, he had seen a bit of the wolf come out in her as she snapped at Joffrey in childish defiance; that was until Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, or some other brother of the Kingsguard was ordered to beat her. Even then, she had reacted precisely as Joffrey had wanted; frightened tears and submissive courtesies.

As she became increasingly riled into a true anger, Sandor knew not whether to be amused, proud, or cautious; her anger was not like his as he had quickly come to observe. Instead of lashing out in a blind rage, her anger was a slow boil within her; he could almost imagine it rising steadily up her body, threatening to spew forth at any instant.

As Ser Hyle once again began to speak, Sandor watched Sansa's tiny hands, small, delicate, and wholly feminine, curl up into fists as she bit her lower lip hard, as if desperately fighting back the urge to lash out against the knight's unabashed cockiness and presumptiveness.

"Sweetling, I can say with a certainty that almost all of us want nothing more than to keep you safe. Come with me to Maidenp-"

With her eyes a frenzy of irritation, Sansa pushed herself hard from the table and flew from her chair, her hands still clenched into tight fists.

"Enough! I've heard enough. You should all be ashamed of yourselves, each and every one of you." With an intensity that quieted the room in an instant, Sansa slowly swept her eyes around the table, eying each face with a marked fervor before beginning again, her voice low and deliberate.

"You speak as if I am invisible, as if I am a witless child with no concept of what I want and each of you thinking you know what is best for me. Make no mistakes, I am not a child, not anymore. I watched my father die in front of me and it was because of my own stupidity. My mother is gone. I will never see her again. And my brothers, all of them gone, except one and he's a thousand leagues away at the Wall. My sister is lost, dead possibly.

The Starks are all but gone. Blood of the first men, a line that extends thousands of years into the past and I am quite possibly the last of my name. And here you all are, quarrelling about my future without as much as asking what it is that I want. I refuse to spend the rest of my life in hiding, moving amongst the shadows from one temporary home to another.

I want to find my sister Arya and I want to go home, to Winterfell. I don't care how long it takes or how it happens, but I'm going home, with or without all of you. And if I should perish in the process, at least I know I won't die a coward, hiding from those who took everything I have ever loved. My fate is now my own."

Sandor saw the astonishment sweep across the table; Brienne with eyes widening to the size of saucers, Podrick with his mouth agape in sheer terror, Septon Meribald starring ponderously at a woman he had clearly underestimated, and the Elder Brother smiling softly whilst gently nodding his head, a glimmer of pride in his eyes.

Sandor found himself strangely aroused by her outburst. Gentle, sweet, soft spoken Sansa Stark had finally found her voice. When he looked upon her, he saw a woman grown, not just in body, but in mind as well. Until now, he had seen glimmers of her confidence, fleeting instances of her standing her ground with a refusal to second guess herself or her instincts. Before him was a woman grown who possessed all the passion and resilience he always knew was buried underneath all of her polished courtesies and polite smiles.

It seemed that the bewilderment had unanimously descended upon the room with the exception of Ser Hyle whose darkened smile and beguiling eyes had persisted throughout Sansa's seething diatribe.

Brienne shifted forward in her seat and lowered her eyes, a gesture of deference, before beginning hesitantly.

"My Lady, Winterfell was sacked by Ramsay Bolton. The Boltons' hold on Winterfell is backed by the Iron Throne. If it is your wish to go home, I offer my sword to your cause. However, you must know that by taking Winterfell, you are in effect continuing your brother's cause to liberate the north."

With a furrowed brow, Sansa let her gaze fall to the floor, seemingly contemplating the heaviness of Brienne's words. Suddenly, her eyes flew up to meet Sandor's and she spoke as if he was the only one in the room, as if the others had all but vanished and he was all she saw.

"I told you I wanted to go home. I told you that I wanted to find my sister. I told you that I wanted to watch as those who betrayed my family burned. Those were not idle wants, Sandor. I mean them now as much as I meant them then."

Sandor gave her a solemn nod. He had not doubted that she meant those words, but rather doubted that she truly understood what they implied, what she was really asking for. Still standing, Sansa turned to face Brienne, her eyes softening slightly.

"I do not want my brother's cause to be for naught. Winterfell is my home, it is Arya's home, and as we speak those who betrayed Robb are sitting in my father's chair, sleeping in my mother's bed, feasting in the Great Hall. If going home means continuing Robb's cause, then so be it. In the mean time, I want to find my sister. She was with Sandor near the Trident and quite possibly traveled to the Saltpans after leaving him."

Having spoke her peace, Sansa retreated slowly back to her chair and sat down with a deep sigh, letting the heaviness of the conversation seemingly settle in her bones, making her body fold with exhaustion.

Brienne let her eyes meet Sansa's with a reverent nod before glancing slightly over to where Podrick Payne was sitting, a dumbfounded look on his face.

"The Saltpans are not far from here. We can begin our search there for Arya. Perhaps someone saw her or knows something of her whereabouts. Podrick, you will accompany me on the search for Arya Stark."

Finding at least some solace in Brienne's words, Sansa settled in her seat with a contented sigh, the tension in her body slowly retreating. Apparently encouraged by Sansa's reaction, Brienne began again, her words heartfelt and deliberate.

"Your father was beloved by the northmen, this much I know to be true, we all know to be true. And I have no doubts that they were just as loyal to your brother Robb. Those men have been broken, either forced into hiding or forced to begrudgingly bend the knee to King Tommen.

But it is not just the northmen, your mother's brother, Edmure, and uncle, Brynden, raised their banners in your brother's cause. They are both still alive, my Lady. Perhaps if we can somehow reach them, they can lend their support to your cause."

Drumming his fingers on the table, Ser Hyle let out a sarcastic chuckle, devious delight spreading across his face in a devilish smile.

"Lady Brienne, what you are speaking of is war. The poor girl just wants to go home. True enough, a few Boltons may present a problem. However, let me remind you that Edmure is a captive of the Freys and Brynden has barricaded himself in Riverrun which is surrounded by Lannister retainers."

Sandor eyed Brienne carefully as her irritation was clearly displayed on her face, her eyes glistening with frustration and her jaw set tensely, contorting her lips in a hardened scowl.

Feigning contemplation, Ser Hyle rested his head in his chin and lifted his eyes to the ceiling, drawing out his words as her spoke.

"Although, you  _are_  in service to Jamie Lannister after all…."

His voice trailed off until he let out a sarcastic gasp and cocked his head to the side, meeting Brienne's furious glare with seedy eyes.

"Gods! That's right! How could I have possibly forgotten? You carry a letter given to you by the Kingslayer, a letter sealed by King Tommen himself stating that you are on a royal mission to find Sansa Stark. Since Ser Jamie is such a dear friend to you, perhaps you could tell him to withdraw his men from Riverrun long enough so that the Blackfish can swim upstream to his escape."

In a frenzy, Brienne turned her stare towards Sansa, her mouth opening and closing in a futile attempt to desperately find words, but coming up empty-handed. Before Brienne could mutter an explanation, Sansa shook her head, her face flooded with disappointment and pain at the perceived betrayal. Her voice came softly from her chest, breathless and disbelieving.

"You…you…the Lannister's sent you to find me?"

With an ardent fervor, Brienne shook her head frantically whilst leaning forward in her seat so abruptly that she all but flew from her chair.

"No, my Lady! You do not understand. It is not as you imagine!"

Conflicted, Sansa reluctantly let her stare retreat from Brienne until her eyes settled on Sandor, her face pleading and unsure. While he was none too pleased at Brienne's obvious affection for Jamie Lannister, Sandor could not deny that the woman was honorable and truly seemed to have the Little Bird's best interest at heart, which was more than could be said for most. Sandor held Sansa's stare and began softly, his voice a low, but gentle rasp.

"Sansa, Brienne swore an oath to your mother as did Jamie Lannister. Their oath was the same: to find you and your sister and bring you back to her safely. Your mother is gone, but that oath remains. I know a Lannister's word is shit, but if you trust me then trust when I tell you this: Brienne means you no harm."

Before Sansa could reply, Sandor shot a threatening glare at Brienne, his voice lowering to something akin to a growl. "Don't make me regret those words, wench."

The Elder Brother quietly settled back in his seat before turning his head softly towards Sansa and smiling affectionately, his words coming out reassuringly.

"My Lady, Clegane speaks truly. You have naught to worry about where Lady Brienne is concerned. You are fortunate to have her sword behind your cause. However, your safety does present a problem still. Surely, word of an auburn haired highborn maiden gathering banners to win back Winterfell will rouse the interest of many, most of all those in King's Landing. Perhaps what Septon Meribald suggested is best for the time being, until there is a clearer course of action."

Septon Meribald nodded his head eagerly, satisfied that his contribution and council had been heard. Merrily, he clasped his hands together as a gleeful grin swept across his face.

"My Lady, the Septon in Braavos is a dear friend of mine. Undoubtedly, he would take us in and provide refuse from your troubles in the Seven Kingdoms."

Overwhelmed, Sansa let her eyes fleet about the table, obviously uncomfortable by the slight pressure to make a decision. Her voice was soft and unsure, a whisper said more to herself than to anyone else. "Braavos?"

Instinctively understanding Sansa's misgivings about the prospect, Brienne lowered her head slightly to meet Sansa's eyes, empathetically softening her face in a consoling gesture.

"Lady Sansa, there are many who are searching for you and not because they want to see you safely home. Although it may seem a step backwards, I do believe it would be best until I can reach Brynden or Edmure."

Sansa breathed in deeply, closing her eyes momentarily before reopening them and letting out a deep sigh.

"Braavos it is then."

The Elder Brother shifted slightly before letting his stare settle on the ceiling as he often did when pondering his thoughts. After many moments, the man folded his hands on the table before declining his eyes towards Sansa.

"Dyre Den is a two day's journey from here. A small ship can take you across the bay to Gulltown where you can find passage to Braavos. Septon Meribald could make the journey with you-"

Before the Elder Brother could finish, Ser Hyle interjected loudly, his voice cutting through the tranquility that had settled blessedly in the room, easing prior tensions. In an obnoxious gesture, the man fell to his knees next to Sansa's chair and bowed his head.

"Sweet Lady Sansa, I would be honored to be your sworn shield. I will make the journey with you as well."

With a huff of annoyance and clearly at her wits end with the man, Sansa narrowed her eyes at Ser Hyle, her face glazed with an icy stare.

"Ser Hyle, that won't be necessary. There is only one man I want as my sworn shield and he sits across from me."

With that, she turned her gaze to Sandor, nodding her head gently with a soft smile. "I want Sandor with me."

The man abruptly stumbled to his feet, aggravated and pride wounded at her blunt rejection. Brienne softly snickered, vindicated amusement gleaming in her eyes.

"Ser Hyle, you will travel to the Saltpans to seek out Arya with Podrick and me. We will travel to the Riverlands to find what we can. My Lady, we will send for you in Braavos with any information we find in our journey."

Sansa sat quietly for many moments, her body still and her eyes steady on her hands folded lightly in her lap. Sandor watched her there, wishing he could read the thoughts that might be settling in her mind. As he studied her, he felt a growing sense of unease forming in the pit of his stomach. He traced the genesis of the feeling, seeking out its origin amongst the slow aching he felt churning amongst his soul.  _She knows not what she's asking for, what this means for her._ He had wanted to keep her safe, keep her protected and yet their journey had instantaneously become more dangerous than Sandor could have imagined.

The room suddenly felt stifled and as the unease set heavily in his being, he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. He wanted to pull her away, to leave the room, to the leave the Isle, to leave the whole bloody world behind and go someplace where it could be just the two of them.

Seemingly feeling his eyes on her, Sansa finally let her head incline ever so slightly, meeting his stare through her eyelashes. Sandor muttered the only words he could think of, the only words that rushed to forefront of his troubled mind.

"Little Bird, are you sure this is what you want?"

As she slowly lifted her head, Sansa eyed each person seated at the table as if seeking out reassurance on their faces. When her stare came back to meet his, she nodded her head tentatively. Her voice was scarcely above a whisper.

"Yes. I am sure."

The Elder Brother let out a fatigued sigh, letting his body slump back in his chair with his arms stretching far above his head, working out the soreness in his arms. With a decisive nod, the man swept his eyes about the table before letting his stare settle on Sandor.

"It is all but settled then. Clegane, I can scarcely imagine how exhausted you must be, but if you would be so kind, I wish to speak to you privily."

Wordlessly, the others filed out of the room, one by one, as Sandor and the Elder Brother remained seated. As Sansa lifted herself from her seat, she eyed Sandor with a soft gaze and gave him a gentle smile before slowly fluttering out of the room, closing the door delicately behind her.

The Elder Brother tentatively pushed a tray of black bread, honeycomb, and hard cheese towards Sandor. He found he was not hungry, but instead a growing unease had settled sourly in the pit of his stomach.

Silently the Elder Brother stared intently at Sandor, his elbow on the table and his head resting heavily in his hand. Sandor had surmised what the Elder Brother meant to speak to him about. The implicit words floated in the air, filling the room with a thick blanket of tension. For long moments, the man sat there, pondering Sandor before finally speaking.

With a gentle nod of his head, the Elder Brother motioned towards Sansa's empty seat.

"Lady Sansa. She is lovelier than I could have ever imagined. I see she has a bit of the wolf in her as well."

The man chuckled softly as Sandor remained silent with his face hardening to a stoic gaze as he contemplated Sansa's chair. As the Elder Brother continued, his voice retained its softness, but was colored with dismay, a growing disquietude that mingled about his words.

"You did not tell Lady Sansa the true reason you were in the Vale the night she came colliding into you. You told her you were on your way to take up work as a sell sword in Braavos."

The man shrugged his shoulders in consolation, a perceptive awareness of Sandor's own unease.

"Seems plausible enough, I suppose. But the question remains, why did you feel compelled to lie to her, Clegane?"

Silently, Sandor let the question tumble through his mind, a profound understanding pierced through the veil of silence, a painful recognition of the uneasiness that had come ravage him. He knew the answer; he had always known the answer and had spent his quiet moments willing it away from his mind. In King's Landing, he had drowned it in wine and whores in a futile attempt to wash it away, send it off to the sea to perish with the salty waves.

Sandor Clegane was one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms; a brutal warrior, a ruthless killer, a hound from hell. Sandor relished the power he had to invoke terror in others. If he couldn't inspire love or happiness or joy in others, he would inspire what he could; hatred and fear. It was his own hatred and bitterness that protected him, wrapped him in an impenetrable armor that turned his heart to stone and blackened his soul, allowing him to commit unspeakable sins without the slightest of remorse.

In an ironic twist of fate, Sansa Stark, the gentlest of creatures, the truest antithesis to the monstrosity that was Sandor, had left him feeling powerless. Her warmth and sincerity had begun to thaw the icy shield surrounding his heart. Desperately, he tried to retain what power he could lest she bring him crumbling to his knees. Her fear, the terror that pooled in her eyes at the sight of him, had equipped him with the power to control her and in doing so allowed him to control the unbidden feelings that stirred within him when she was around.

But when she stood before him in the cave, she was no longer a child and he found that he no longer filled her with terror as he once did. All at once, he felt truly powerless and completely inadequate. In a desperate effort to retain what little fleeting control he could manage, Sandor had lied to her; selfishly refusing to tell let her relish in the fact that she had haunted his dreams and invaded his heart, leaving him defenseless and petrified of his own feelings.

Patiently awaiting his response, the Elder Brother left Sandor to his thoughts, his head cocked slightly to the side in a sympathetic gesture. When Sandor finally spoke, he could only muster an incomplete explanation, a couple of words which inadequately conveyed all the thoughts that had come to besiege his mind.

"I came upon her after I had convinced myself that the journey to find her would be damn near impossible. As if she fell from the sky, there she was in front of me and now I feel powerless to protect her, to keep her safe."

Sandor brought his hand to his chin in contemplation and sighed deeply, simultaneously disconcerted and relieved at his confession, small and incomplete as it was. The Elder Brother slowly nodded his head with a knowing smile, seemingly reading between the lines and gathering the unspoken words as they hung in the air.

"Atoning for our sins is difficult, painful even; the road towards redemption is seldom the straightest path nor is it free of obstacles. But I wonder, Clegane. Why would the Gods above bring her to you if they did not think you could protect her, keep her safe?"

Shaking his head, Sandor laughed bitterly and snorted. "What in Seven Hells do the Gods have to do with this?"

With a solemn look that conveyed the graveness of his words, the Elder Brother let his eyes rest heavily on Sandor. His voice lowered to a tone barely above a whisper, his words meanderingly slowly from his lips.

"So much more than you can ever hope to imagine, Clegane. So much more."

Exasperated and exhausted at the conversation, Sandor acridly spat his words, his voice growling from his chest as frustration began to rise within him. Leaning forward in his seat, Sandor stared hard at the Elder Brother, willing the man to hear his words, to understand his plight.

"I have nothing to offer Sansa beyond my sword and shield. Even that is something she can easily get from the Maid of Tarth or any other buggering knight she comes across. She's not the frightened, weak child I left behind in King's Landing. She's a woman grown and understands what she wants and how to get it. Knights and lords will gladly throw down their swords in her honor and offer to win back Winterfell in her name. You know as well as I, they will marry her off to one of their sons or even marry her themselves for that matter. And then what?"

With his eyes muddled with restiveness, the Elder Brother remained quiet, seemingly at a loss for words. Sandor found the thought humorous.  _I have rendered the man speechless, the man who somehow always manages the right words._

Growing increasingly agitated, Sandor rested his elbows heavily on the table with a thud as he rested his forehead in the palms of his hands, his voice becoming thick with vexation as his body began to tense.

"You have no answer to that I see. Well, I do. I will tell you exactly what will happen. I'll stand by as she is married off to some knight. I'll stand by as she welps her children, gives her husband his sons. I'll stand by and watch as her family grows. Like some old dog, I'll get tossed aside until I am needed. Bugger that! She doesn't need me."

The Elder Brother leaned forward in his seat, his eyes containing a fierceness which reverberated through his words.

"You are gravely and grievously mistaken if you truly believe that. Clegane, you left the Isle to find Sansa Stark; it is what you needed. Now here she is, yet it isn't enough. What is it that you want?"

The man settled back in his seat, the intensity retreating from his body, but nevertheless eying Sandor intently, patiently.

Sandor stared across the table at Sansa's empty seat, envisioning her seated there, her gentle eyes looking upon his face with all the trust and tenderness he felt sorely unworthy of. As a calmness washed over him, Sandor searched his soul for the answer to the man's question.  _What is it that you want?_ The answer was simple yet agonizing in what it implied.

"It's not what I want. It's what I want for  _her_. She deserves more than what I can ever hope to give her. She deserves a good man, an honest man. One that can protect her, treat her gently, make her happy."

A familiar aching panged in his chest, spreading throughout his body as Sandor lifted his head from his hands and stared at the Elder Brother, his face contorting in a pained expression. "Sansa deserves a man that knows what it is to love."

The Elder Brother met Sandor's stare, but let his eyes fall away, seemingly not able to bear what in his saw in Sandor's eyes. Quietly and somberly, he spoke, his words tinged with bewilderment.

"And you don't think you could be all of those things to her?"

Sandor sighed deeply and shook his head, startled at the painful thought.

"If I thought I could, I would be with her now. The truth is I don't know. What I do know is this: more than anything, she deserves someone that does know with a certainty."

Abruptly, the Elder Brother lifted his eyes, narrowing them slightly with a peculiar light gleaming inexplicably as his voice came husky from his chest, almost exasperated.

"And that doesn't sound like love to you?"

The question blindsided Sandor, he hadn't truly considered it and certainly did not have an answer. Shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head, Sandor shifted in his seat towards the Elder Brother.

"I wouldn't know. You said it yourself once; I am a man who has loved little in this life and has scarcely known any love myself."

Nodding his head slowly, the Elder Brother let his gaze fall to the door in a far-off stare, the corners of his mouth lifting into an afflicted smile with his eyes filling with the pain Sandor had often glimpsed there. In apparent reverie, the man remained silent before speaking, letting his fixed stare remain steadily in the same place, as if speaking to some obscure specter.

"I told you how I came to the Quiet Isle. I told you of the life I left behind and the regrets I live with now, but what you don't know is why I continued to stay on the Isle, why I never went back for her, for my Carina. She was to me what Sansa is to you and I felt much of what you feel now. I wanted to be a better man for her, but was too scared, too proud. Still, I wanted the world for her and would have given it to her if I had had the chance.

She had found her happiness, so I thought. The man she married was highborn, owned lands and riches, and could offer her a life I couldn't hope to give her. I imagined him to be a better man than me; possessing all the qualities I felt I lacked, the qualities I felt she deserved. I imagined him giving her everything I thought that I couldn't. So I let her go.

I was never a man of faith, but the night I received news she had been married I looked to the heavens and prayed to the Seven above. 'Let him be good to her,' I prayed. 'Let him treat her gently, hold her tight when tears fill her eyes, speak sweetly when her heart needs it, and let him be everything she needs. And her…let her be happy, even if it isn't with me.'"

Although he refused to meet his stare, Sandor could see the subtle glinting of tears in the man's eyes as he succumbed to the memories which he had so clearly fought desperately to extricate from his mind.

"You already know how this story ends. She comes to me in my dreams. Oh so many nights I dream of her! And do you know what she says to me, Clegane? She says to me, 'Why did you give up on me, on us?' Those are the words I am left with, night after night."

Slowly, the Elder Brother turned his head towards Sandor, the grief heavy in his eyes and his voice thick with a sort of pleading.

"Letting go isn't always the right thing to do. You want the world for her and maybe you can't give it to her. But to want that for her is to love her, whether you believe it or not. And love is enough. It just is."

Sandor pondered the man's words, keenly aware of the paralleling sorrow he seemed to share with the Elder Brother. However, their similarities diverged at a particular point, a point which made all the difference to Sandor in that moment.

"Perhaps I know what it is to love. But I can scarcely believe that she could ever love me, not truly. And even if she did, am I worthy of that love? I have kept my word to leave the Hound at rest, but that beast is still locked away somewhere within me. And that is enough for me to believe that I am not worthy of her love. I will never be what she wants, what she needs. As much as I do not want to admit it, perhaps it is best I let the Little Bird fly."

With that, Sandor pushed himself from the table as the Elder Brother reached frantically for him, shaking his head and fumbling over his desperate words.

"Clegane. You know not what you are saying, what you would be doing."

Undaunted, Sandor paced to the door, the ache in his chest throbbing uncontrollably. As he began to push through the door, Sandor heard the Elder Brother hurriedly push from his chair, his voice bellowing angrily from the walls.

"By destroying your fate, you destroy hers too! You defy the Gods, spit in their faces. You know not what you are giving up!"

Sandor stopped in mid stride and turned slightly over his shoulder to meet the Elder Brother's furious stare. His voice came hissing from his lungs, an angry rasp as he felt his eyes darken.

"I am  _profoundly_  aware of what I would be giving up."

* * *

_Home. Winterfell. Gods, it's actually happening._

As Sansa left the Elder Brother's solar, she felt as though she was floating, her feet lifting ever so softly from the ground and her legs carrying her effortlessly down the corridor.

Mindlessly, she wandered into the central hall, feeling somehow beckoned towards the empty room, and seated herself at a table. A column of sunlight filtered through a thickly paned window, the glass set in a soft swirling pattern. Closing her eyes, Sansa let her body succumb to warmth of the sun, her skin eagerly absorbing the caressing rays.

Seated on a long wooden bench, Sansa leaned back to rest her back on the table, stretching her sore and tired limbs as she let the thoughts flee from her mind. The conversation in the Elder Brother's solar seemed but a dream; a waking vision which was brought forth by the singing hope that had been buried in her heart.

Out of desperation and exhaustion she had flown into an aggravated rage, releasing all the anger and pain she had scrambled to mask in King's Landing and the Eyrie. As a silence fell upon the table, Sansa felt as though her heart would beat out of her chest; she had been almost certain that Sandor could hear the frantic thudding and would call her bluff. She hadn't anticipated the response; Brienne's willingness to lend her sword to the cause, the Septon's offer to take her to Braavos, Sandor's quiet understanding.

As the thoughts reemerged on the precipice of her mind, Sansa let the rays of the sun melt them away. If she pondered the details of the conversation too much, she felt she might go back on her words, abandon the long journey that lay ahead of her.

Suddenly, a voice broke through the silence and shattered her musings. With a gasp, Sansa's eyes flew open as she spun around in her seat to find Ser Hyle standing over her, a mischievous smile playing about his thin lips.

"Lady Sansa. May I have a moment with you?"

Breathless, Sansa placed a hand on her heavily heaving chest. The man had startled her, but beyond that he inexplicably left her with an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. Courteous as he may be, something in his eyes told her that he could not,  _should_  not be trusted.

Abruptly she rose to her feet, stepping backwards in an attempt to put a buffer of space between them.

"Ser Hyle. I did not hear you come in. You gave me quite a fright." Her words were curt and cutting.

Undeterred by the biting tone in her voice, Ser Hyle stepped towards her, his hips shifting in a sauntering fashion that emulated his inherent arrogance.

"I didn't mean to startle you, my Lady. However, something of our conversation with the Elder Brother troubles me and I felt I must speak with you about it. If I may be so blunt, Sandor Clegane is a dangerous man. The atrocities he has committed are unspeakable, surely you must know. You cannot, in good conscious, appoint a man like him as your sworn shield. I wish you would reconsider my offer to take you with me to Maidenpool. I can protect you just as well as him, but you would never have to second guess my honor."

Appalled, Sansa crossed her arms tightly over her chest, somehow feeling exposed to the deplorable man that was inching ever closer to her. She felt the instinctive urge to flee course through her, but the door was behind her; she knew not how many paces away. Instead she planted her feet firmly on the ground, lifting her posture so she stood as tall as she could.

"Ser Hyle, you presume too much. And I have never second guessed Sandor's honor. One does not need to be anointed a knight to possess honor."

The man gave a vitriolic laugh, his voice caustic as it emerged from his throat. Relenting, he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders before narrowing his eyes.

"Forgive me, my Lady. I have not meant to give offense. I sense you do not trust me." Steadily and with small, slow steps, Ser Hyle began pacing towards Sansa, with a half smile cracked about his lips.

She felt her skin begin to crawl and realized with startling revelation that the man before her reminded her too much of Petyr Baelish with his crooked smile and seedy courtesies. She breathed in deep and quietly tried to calm herself.  _He mustn't know he has the power to make me so uneasy…_

As Sansa backed away from him and steadily towards the door that was somewhere behind her, she cleared her throat and inclined her chin up, holding her head up high, feigning her courage.

"I've been betrayed too many times, Ser Hyle. Trust is not something I feel should be given away wantonly." She released a quiet breath of relief, pleased with her composure and the quickness of her retort.

Her relief was temporary and all but fled her body as Ser Hyle threw his head back and his voice erupted with dark laughter which bellowed off the walls of the central hall.

"Betrayal." He let the words meander off of his tongue, seemingly relishing the sound before continuing.

"Betrayal. Such a peculiar choice of words, my Lady. I suppose you don't know, do you?"

As he leaned forward slightly, Sansa's brow folded in confusion as she silently shook her head, mystified as to what Ser Hyle was referring. Her bafflement only succeeded in making Ser Hyle laugh harder, clutching his side and gasping for air before he composed himself enough to continue.

"Your father, the mighty Ned Stark, was a noble man, true enough, but he was a fool, my Lady, all the pardons in the Seven Kingdoms for me saying so. Oh that fateful day, so many moons ago, when he stormed into the throne room demanding that Cersei and her bastard children be taken into custody! Surely, you were not present when this occurred, but nonetheless you know that all the attendants to the House Stark lost their lives that sad day."

Sansa only managed a solemn nod, unwilling to ruminate over the painful memories with the likes of Ser Hyle. The man gave an insincere nod before continuing.

"Of course you do and I see it pains you to remember. However, you are missing a vital detail of that day, a detail I feel you should know before you entrust your life into the hands of the Hound. When your father made his demands, he was under the assumption that with his men and the goldcloaks combined he had the Lannisters outnumbered five to one. That was a grievous miscalculation on his part and he paid for it dearly with the lives of the men who had remained loyal to your house.

The Hound was present in the throne room that day and took it upon himself to personally slay a number of guardsmen sworn to your house. Happily and willingly, he took part in the downfall of the mighty House Stark. In fact, if given the chance, many feel he would have slaughtered Eddard Stark himself."

Sansa felt warm tears filling her eyes and falling softly over her cheeks. Ser Hyle averted his gaze behind her right shoulder and narrowed his eyes before acridly shouting out his words.

"Isn't that right, Hound? In fact, I believe you were one of the first of the Lannister guards to instigate the massacre, even after Ned Stark insisted that blood not to be shed."

Sansa had felt Sandor's heavy presence fill the room and knew he was standing behind her, but try as she might, she was unable to turn around and face him. Long ago, Sansa had stopped being afraid of the Hound. However, in this moment she felt her fear grip her, but not the fear she had felt in King's Landing.

True enough, she had surmised that the Hound was undoubtedly involved in the purging of House Stark in King's Landing at the orders of Cersei and Joffrey. In fact, Jeyne Poole had tearfully told Sansa that Sandor broke down her door with a war hammer.  _'Killing is the sweetest thing there is…I've lost count of how many I've killed…they're all meat and I'm the butcher…' He's a killer, a self-styled butcher. What could I have expected?_

Even so, Sansa found that she unwilling to believe he had acted on his own accord. The fear she felt was not the same fear she had had of the Hound. In its place was a fear of facing him, searching his stormy eyes and finding any bitter truth to Ser Hyle's words.

Instead, she kept her back to him, taking deep breaths to assuage her trembling and fend off the tears that sought to besiege her eyes. Ser Hyle slowly paced towards her, keeping a steady glare locked onto Sandor. As he came to stand next to her, he gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Please consider my offer, my Lady."

With that, Ser Hyle pushed past her and retreated from the central hall, merrily whistling and his boots beating against the stone ground. As his foot falls softened to a silence, Sansa tentatively turned around and came to face Sandor, her eyes finally succumbing to the tears which were now streaming down her face.

Guilt had come to color Sandor's face and his eyes were steadily locked to the ground, refusing to meet her fixed stare.

"Tell me that what he said isn't true."

Her voice came weak from her body, quivering uncontrollably with each word. As he continued to avoid her stare, Sansa understood immediately that despite his scheming and manipulations, Ser Hyle had spoken truly.

With a pained sigh, Sandor reached out to touch her, to pull her into his arms.

"Little Bird. I can-"

Sansa shrunk away from him, retreating backwards a few paces until her back was flush against the wall, her skin was hot with anger and eagerly absorbing the coolness of the stone wall behind her. Her heart was beating frantically and angry tears were falling from her eyes despite her internal pleading for them to stop.

"Don't call me that! I'm not little and I'm not some chirping bird anymore, just mindlessly repeating my courtesies. What Ser Hyle said is true, isn't it?"

Suddenly, Sandor's head snapped up, his eyes white and wide with rage and his mouth twitching as it did whenever anger was upon him.

"Aye, it's true. I killed your father's men. I may have even enjoyed it. What of it? Did you forget what I am, girl? I am a dog, a killer. Do you get that now?"

He bellowed out a snarling laugh and Sansa felt a dull ache pang through her body. Roughly, he grabbed her by her arms, forcefully pulling her towards him with his grip tight as iron.

"No, you still don't get it. You think because I came upon you in the Vale that now I'm some gallant knight from your dreams, come to rescue you from the bitter truths of the world."

Sansa struggled feebly against his grip, her cries coming from her chest in desperate whimpers and her voice a soft whisper.

"Let go! You're hurting me."

Instantly, Sandor's grip weakened before his arms fell defeated to his side, his voice heavy with a strange sadness and a wounded expression flooding his eyes like Sansa had never seen before.

"I'm always hurting you. Everything I've done has hurt you. Everything I have yet to do will probably hurt you, it seems."

Solemnly and without another word, he backed away from her and retreated from the room. Sansa's knees buckled and her legs crumpled from beneath her. She let herself slump to the floor, her dress pooling about her aching legs. The tears had dried from her eyes and she was left in an unnatural silence.

She knew not how long she stayed there, but as the sun began retreating towards the western horizon, its light danced through the stained glass window on the far side of the central hall. Entranced, she studied the light as it came streaming through the window, painting the floor in hues of blue, gold, and crimson. The colors eerily reminded her of the stained glass in the throne room at King's Landing, its light nearly identical and leaving her with a dreadful feeling of unease.  _He was there when my father was arrested. He killed our guardsmen and he enjoyed it._

A soft shuffling of the Elder Brother roused Sansa from her daydream and she lifted her gaze to meet his. His hands were folded gently in front of him and something about the way he looked at her told Sansa that he understood the ache that had descended upon her. With a gentle, unspoken reassurance, he took her hands in his and pulled her softly to her feet.

"My Lady, a bath has been prepared for you. If you are hungry, I can have Brother Narbert bring you your supper."

Sansa nodded and let her eyes fall to the floor, aware of the man's ability to see straight through to the very core of her being. She pondered what he might see when he looked upon her. And then the thought came to her, a sudden realization that made her breath catch in her chest.

Reluctantly, Sansa let her eyes meet the Elder Brother's. "May I ask you something, my Lord?"

The man smiled sweetly and nodded his head intently and Sansa caught a glimmer in his eyes which told her that he somehow knew what she meant to ask.

"What do you see when you look upon Sandor Clegane?"

A soft chuckle rumbled through the Elder's Brother chest as he nodded his head, seemingly anticipating her question.

"I thought you might ask. The better question is what I do not see when I look upon Sandor Clegane. The answer to that, my Lady, is the Hound. No longer do I see a man driven by hatred and fury. No longer do I see a man who is tormented by the ghosts of his past. No, it is not his past which taunts him, but I fear that now it is his future that vexes him so."

Sansa let her eyes fall to the floor and shook her head.  _The Hound died on the Trident. Sandor Clegane is a different man. Yet something of the Hound has remained with him._

Wordlessly, the Elder Brother looped his arm with hers and patted her forearm with his hand before leading her from the central hall and down the corridor to the empty bath hall adjacent to her bed chamber. Before taking his leave, the Elder Brother once more took her hands in his.

"If there is anything else you might need, please do not hesitate to ask, my Lady."

Sansa kissed him gently on the cheek. "Thank you. You have been so very kind. If it would not be too much trouble I wish to speak to the Lady Brienne. Could you send for her after I have my bath?"

The Elder Brother nodded his head, his large hands gently squeezing hers once more before softly whispering. "Of course, my Lady."

Sansa's body eagerly absorbed the warmth of the bath water which all but eased out the aches of her joints and saddle sores, dissolving away the worries she had held tensely in her form. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander to everywhere and nowhere; the thoughts leaving her mind as quickly as they had entered, whisked away like leaves carried on an autumn wind.

As the water grew tepid, Sansa pushed herself from the liquid embrace and toweled off the droplets of water that clung to her skin. She eyed her dirty clothes with a sigh before stepping into a grey roughspun robe Brother Narbert had set out for her. Apologetically, he had explained that they did not keep women's clothing on the Isle before offering her the smallest robe he had found. Fortunately, he offered to wash the soiled traveling clothes she had been wearing since leaving the Eyrie.

The sleeves of the robe hung loosely from her arms and an excess of fabric gathered at her feet and dragged across the floor as she walked. Sansa giggled quietly to herself, certain that she must be quite a sight, but thankful that she was able to bathe. She imagined herself emerging a new woman from the water, washing away her troubles and leaving them behind in the murky water.

In her bedchamber, a single tapered candle was putting off a sphere of soft light, creating shifting shadows throughout the room. As her eyes studied the modest room, she spotted an ebony comb that had been placed on the table beside her bed. She smiled sweetly to herself before pacing across the room to retrieve it. Slowly she began pulling it through the curling tresses of her auburn hair, working delicately through each tangle.

The methodical movements lulled her into a daze which was interrupted by a gentle knock at her door followed by the hesitant voice of Brienne.

"Lady Sansa, the Elder Brother says you wish to speak with me."

Sansa caught the subtle inflection of her voice, as if questioningly announcing herself. She placed the comb back on the table before settling herself into the only chair in the room.

"Please come in."

As Brienne pushed into the room, she stooped slightly to avoid hitting the frame of the door. Sansa motioned towards the bed and nodded her head politely.

"Please sit."

Slowly and with as much delicacy as a woman like her could manage, Brienne lowered herself onto the straw mattress, the bed sinking underneath her weight. Truly, she was the largest woman Sansa had ever seen. Despite this, there was a gentleness to her that intimated to Sansa that while Brienne may dress like a knight outwardly, she possessed the softness of a maiden inwardly. Sansa watched as Brienne shifted uncomfortably, the bed frame groaning under her weight as she earnestly awaited Sansa's words.

"I wanted to thank you, for your service to my lady mother and for wanting to continue the search for Arya. I feel blessed to have your sword behind my cause."

Brienne nodded her head dutifully and rested her forearm on her leg, leaning forward slightly.

"Your mother was an honorable woman. I admired her courage, her strength. I am committed to your service, my Lady, as I was committed to hers."

The pureness of her honesty and the sweet sincerity of Brienne's words warmed Sansa, beckoning a gentle smile to spread about her lips. She respected Brienne and found that despite only knowing her for hardly a day, she had come to trust her. However, she refused to let go of one detail, one that hung heavily in her mind.

"Admittedly, your involvement with Jamie Lannister troubles me. I suppose…"

Sansa's voice caught in her throat as she scooted towards the edge of her seat and awkwardly searched for her next words. With a deep breath and a steady resolve, she began again.

"I suppose I do not understand why a man like Jamie Lannister, the famed oath breaker and kingslayer, would feel compelled to follow through on an oath he pledged to his enemy's mother. It does not make sense to me."

Sansa watched as Brienne gently lifted her body so that she was sitting upright, her form tensing stiffly as her eyes fluttered about the room, flustered by Sansa's prodding inquiries. With a sudden realization beaming through her mind, Sansa let out a breathy laugh, embarrassed at her own oversight of the situation. Nervously, she began to ramble, her words tumbled out of her mouth uncontrolled and unfiltered.

"Although, I suppose to you it makes no sense that I trust a man like Sandor Clegane for my protection. I cannot hope to explain why it is. He has changed somehow, but yet he hasn't. He is still harsh, rough tongued. His temper as wild as ever…"

Sansa's voice trailed off as she struggled to find the words, to articulate what she had glimpsed in him since the night they had been reunited in the midst of a violent storm.

"He is different. I can't quite explain how or why, but he is. And I…I just…I don't know."

She let her eyes fall to the floor and pulled her robe tighter to her body, somehow feeling as if she had just exposed a part of herself she had not meant to, a secret that even she had not been aware of until this moment.

Brienne gave Sansa a knowing and sympathetic smile, either amused or uncomfortable by her incessant and unbidden purging, but tenderly offering her response nonetheless.

"My Lady, I believe you have found the answer to your own inquiry. For better or for worse, the hearts of men can change. It seems you know that as well as I do. Sandor Clegane cares for you. Loathe as I am to admit it, I do not believe for a moment he would let any harm befall you."

As a steady silence hung thick in the air, Sansa felt the intensity of Brienne's stare pierce through her.

"You care for him too, Lady Sansa."

It was not a question, but a declaration, a subtle encouragement for Sansa to acknowledge what Brienne, the Elder Brother, and all the others apparently were so plainly seeing. Flustered, Sansa huffed and crossed her arms tighter about her chest.

"Yes. Of course I care for him. I do not wish any harm to befall him either. I feel that's quite natural. I feel the same for you and we have only just met."

Brienne smiled softly, her sapphire eyes alight at Sansa's words.

"You have the kind heart of your mother, Lady Sansa."

Settling in her seat and unfolding her arms, Sansa contemplated Brienne, a woman who was a walking and breathing contradiction of herself. With all the veracity of any warrior, Brienne could undoubtedly ride into battle and fight as gallantly and bravely as any knight. However here in her modest bedchamber, what Sansa saw before her was a maiden, gentle and soft hearted, still a bit unsure of herself and seeking the reassuring approval of others. With a boldness that startled her, Sansa let the question that had been dancing in the back of her mind come pirouetting out of her lips.

"You seem fond of Jamie Lannister. Did you love him?"

As Brienne stifled a tiny gasp, Sansa felt herself blushing what had to be a deep shade of red. Her cheeks burned hot as her hand flew up to meet her mouth in a delayed attempt to cut the words off as they bubbled from her lips.  _Good Gods! She must think me a wanton._ Lowering her eyes in shame, Sansa uttered an embarrassed apology, suddenly remembering the courtesies that had abandoned her moments earlier.

"Forgive me, Lady Brienne. I had no right to ask such a question."

To Sansa's astonishment, Brienne chuckled softly, her laughter akin to a giggle that seemed an unnatural juxtaposition to the armor she wore and the sword dangling from her hip.

"No, my Lady. I do not love Jamie Lannister."

Another question burned on Sansa's lips, a question born from her innate curiosity at matters of the heart, a question her courtesies were sorely insufficient to stave off. Learning forward in her seat, Sansa cocked her head to the side and smiled in anticipation at Brienne.

"Have you ever been in love?"

Slowly, Brienne met Sansa's eyes with shy consideration as if searching out any ill-natured motives in the question. Her voice was soft and gentle, her tone reserved and hesitant.

"Yes, my Lady. I have been in love."

Sansa felt a beaming smile spreading about her face and excitement bubbling up within her. She shifted her weight in the chair, laughing merrily for the first time in as long as she could remember and pleasantly swept up in the conversation and thankful for Brienne's company. She had been yearning for a conversation with another woman. In the Eyrie, Sweetrobin's company had been exhausting and had compelled her to cater to his whims and needs.

"Lady Brienne, if I may be so bold, you wear the armor of a knight, but your heart is as sweet and gentle as mine. Now, go on. What was his name? What was he like?"

A sudden, pained expression flooded Brienne's face, her sparkling blue eyes moist with the onslaught of unbidden tears, her voice a soft whisper.

"Renly. His name was Renly."

Sansa was simultaneously stunned and embarrassed, her astonishment choking off any apologies she scrambled to offer.  _Renly died in her arms. The man she loved taken from her and here I am gushing about love like a dim-witted girl._

Sansa crawled from her chair and kneeled in front of Brienne, taking the Maid of Tarth's large hands into her own, offering what comfort she could.

"Renly Baratheon. I am so sorry. If I had known, I wouldn't have asked."

As a single tear glistened down Brienne's cheek, the woman lifted her eyes to meet Sansa's while squeezing her hands gently.

"He never knew. I never had the chance to tell him, to show him. I'm left to live with my regrets."

Brienne eyes swept over Sansa's face as a subtle serenity settled in her voice, in her gaze.

"The Elder Brother believes that your and Sandor's fates are interwoven with one another's. Regardless of what may come, you two will always find a way back to one another."

Suddenly, Sansa felt her heart beating fast within her chest as her lips coiled into an o-shape which mimicked the only utterance of a response Sansa could think of.

"Oh."

Breathing in deeply, Brienne slowly disentwined her hands from Sansa's and rose to her feet. As the woman paced to the door, Sansa turned over her shoulder, her brow folded in confusion.

"I…I don't understand what you mean."

Brienne stopped in mid-pace in front of the door, lifting her head yet not turning around but instead kept her back to Sansa.

"You talk of love, my Lady. I believe you understand better than any of us."

Brienne pulled open the door and swept from the room, leaving Sansa in silence on the floor, dumbfounded and desperately searching her heart for the meaning of Brienne's words.

* * *

Sandor pushed through the outer doors into the gauzy haze of dusk as the sun fell behind the horizon, leaving a veil of twilight in its absence. His legs felt weak, seemingly unable to carry his burdensome weight any further as they buckled underneath him. As he fell heavily to his knees, the soft, rain-saturated ground generously absorbed his fall and the dampness soaked through the knees of his breeches.

Sandor pulled his legs out from underneath him and settled to the ground, resting back on his elbows, watching quietly as the sun set with a gold and crimson splendor. A gentle breeze moved through the trees as Sandor inclined his gaze to the hill in front of him and the oak tree that stood at its top.

His mind wandered back to the day he sat under that tree, lost in his contemplative thoughts of her; where she was, who she was with, if she was safe. Like a phantasm of his past, Sandor envisioned himself there, under the oak tree and wondered if he had been wise in his decision to leave the Isle. If he hadn't left the Isle, he would have never found Sansa. Likely, she would be with Yohn Royce or some other lord of the Vale, discussing plans for how to take Winterfell.

_'By destroying your fate, you destroy hers too…'_ Sandor snickered bitterly at the thought. It seemed to him that the outcome of Sansa's fate would be the same, regardless of whether or not he was a part of it. If he had never left the Isle, he would have never come to face the feelings that tormented and taunted him in this moment; he would have never had to struggle with the agonizing realization that he could never be what Sansa Stark wants, what she needs.

_'What is it that you want?'_ The question was simple and in King's Landing the answer would have matched the simplicity of the question.  _I wanted her, like a tourney knight wants his prize. I wanted to possess her, to control her. I wanted her to be mine, and mine alone, completely dependent on me. I wanted to keep her and keep her helpless._

The real question was not that he wanted her, but rather why he wanted her. It was the apparition that had haunted Sandor since the day he had found himself enamored by Sansa Stark.

Unwittingly and inexplicably, she had captivated him. Her meek passiveness and shy demureness had played into his dark fantasies, but his desires were selfish and driven by lust; lust of her body and lust for control over her. She had conjured up something within him that had been locked away, feelings he had hardly known he had the capacity to feel. He wanted her to be as defenseless against him as he was against those resurrected feelings.

True enough, he loathed the way Joffrey had treated her and had been in a rage over the way Ser Meryn and Ser Boros seemingly took pleasure in beating her. While he had never raised a hand against Sansa, he had tormented her all the same, savoring the way he could evoke fear from her, the way he could make her tremble with just a look. Still, she would offer her sweet smiles and soft courtesies which both enraged and enthralled him. He was conflicted by the simultaneous need to protect her and to control her.

She had asked him once if it gave him joy to scare people. Truth be told, he had cared little and less what he elicited from other people, whether it was fear, hatred, or sorrow, except when it came to her. With almost an obsessive need, he had wanted her to see him; whether she looked upon him in fear or adoration, he cared not, as long as he could elicit something,  _anything_ from her.

As tears would fill her eyes at his brusque words and seething fury, he found himself completely enraptured as a flush of satisfaction would course through him. He had hated himself for it and, in shame and self-loathing, would avoid or ignore her when he could. But like a moth to the flame, he found he couldn't resist going back for more and so endlessly the cycle continued.

_'What is it that you want?'_ The question no longer seemed so simple and he was at a loss for an answer. He wanted her still yet found the selfishness of his desires had been trumped by a greater need; a need to know that she would be safe, taken care of, and most of all, that she would be happy.

_What I want…What_   _I want is to be the man that she needs, the man that she deserves. I want to be the one that makes her laugh, brings her joy. What I want…is for her to be happy even if it's not with me._

_I will see her safely to Braavos, stay with her until the Brienne can catch herself a Blackfish. Once it's safe for Sansa to go back, I'll see her off and stay behind in Braavos, become a sellsword just like I told her. She wouldn't have to know any better. Then she can go live her life just like she has always imagined; marry some beautiful and gallant knight right out of the songs, have her children, become the great Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell and forget about the Hound of her past._

The prospect left Sandor reeling as a suffocating ache gripped him, siphoning the breath from his lungs. When he left the Isle, he would have never guessed that he would find Sansa. Once he found Sansa, he would have never guessed he would have to let her go. If he had never left the Isle, Sandor knew he would have never come to this painful junction in his fate.

If he had never left the Isle, he could have lived his days out in solitude and monotony. Sansa would have just been a dream; their life together, the life that would never be, could play out in his slumber and he could have her. He would have to awake without her, but he could live his days with the promise of her in his nightly visions. If he saw himself through the days, maybe he would be rewarded with her by night; she could meet him in his dreams.  _That would have been enough. It would have been enough._

As regret at ever leaving the Isle filled his mind, Sandor found that he could not pity himself. Instead, he let his thoughts wander to the memories of waking with her wrapped tightly in his arms, her soft breaths coming sweetly from her lips and the scent of her filling his lungs; the way she smiled gently at him, her eyes looking upon him with trust and kindness, not fear and disgust. Sandor knew his life would have been simpler had he not left the Isle, but the simplicity never would have amounted to the sliver of happiness he had found with her wrapped in his arms.  _It was worth it. To have her in that moment, fleeting as it was, was worth it._

Unbidden and almost automatically, Sandor's eyes wandered up to night's sky above him. The breeze sighed through the trees and the stars speckled the inky twilight. For many moments, he stared at the celestial expanse above him, watching clouds shift about one another before pulling apart, traveling away from one another.

His faith in the Gods had been extinguished long ago, but yet he knew  _something_  had brought him and Sansa together, although he did not know what. Sitting up, he let his face fall into his hands as he massaged his temples, driving away the throbbing that had emerged in his head. Once more he lifted his eyes to heavens above and pleaded with whatever was housed there.  _Is this my punishment? My fate for all the hateful things I have done? You bring her back to me and yet she can never be mine._

His silent thoughts and unspoken prayers were tousled by the sound of soft padding approaching from behind him. In a roughspun robe about two times too big, Sansa came to stand next to him, placidly looking down upon him with timid eyes, her gaze passively seeking to stir him.

He knew she was looking at him as if awaiting his permission to sit next to him. Refusing to meet her gaze, Sandor growled out his words lest he pull her into his arms and lose himself once again in her embrace.

"What are you doing out here?"

From the periphery of his vision, Sandor could see her body tense up, flustered at his sharpness. As she took a step backwards, he thought she meant to retreat away from him, to leave him in the darkness with so many unspoken words hanging precariously in the gulf of silence between them. Seeming to regain her courage, she slowly lowered herself and sat next to him, leaning gently into him, seeking either warmth or comfort. Dreamily, she stared off into the horizon in a wistful daze.

"I couldn't sleep."

For many moments, he said nothing and allowed his body to tense, hard and unwavering as stone; he knew not what to say to her, what she needed to hear from him. He was afraid even if he had found the words to say, they would come out lashing. She turned to face him, pulling his right hand into hers. Wordlessly, he relented to her gently tugging on his hand and felt as she entwined her fingers into his.

As he stared off mindlessly and stoically at the thick curtain of darkness in front of him, Sansa slowly brought her other hand up to meet burned side of his face. He half expected her to pull her hand away in disgust, but instead she let her fingertips settle gently amongst the folds of his scars.

For as long as he could, Sandor avoided her stare because he knew what he would find there; he could feel the intensity of her gaze and understood the meaning of her touch. Unable to deny her what she seemingly needed in this moment, Sandor turned to face her and found what he knew he would find in her eyes; the same unwavering trust and gentleness she had come to regard him with.  _That look will unravel me._

In a stifled whisper she spoke, holding his stare, her eyes moist with tears and her lips trembling slightly. "I'm sorry…"

Sandor could scarcely believe his ears.  _I admitted I took pleasure in killing her father's guardsmen and yet she apologizes to me._

Desperately, he wanted to kiss her, to quell the quivering of her lips by pressing his mouth to hers. He wanted to kiss away the tears that were softly falling over her cheeks. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her there until eternity turned them to dust. Instead, he pulled her hand, still entwined in his, to meet his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her delicate fingers.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. It is I who should be sorry. And I am. I truly am."

Never one to apologize for even the most egregious of deeds, the words felt foreign on his lips yet he felt the meaning heavy within him nonetheless. Sandor let his eyes settle on her, eagerly drinking in her gaze and watching as the corners of her lips curled into a soft smile. Slowly, he stood to his feet and pulled her up with him.

"Come, girl. The night grows cold. I will take you back to your chamber."

Looping her arm in his, they retreated back into the warmth of building. As they walked the corridor back to her sleeping quarters, her pace slowed as she delicately placed one foot in front of the other in a deliberate manner. Continually, their pace slowed to an agonizing meandering. Turning his head to face her, Sandor saw her gaze steadily fixed to the floor, her brow furrowed in contemplation yet her breathing came in quick, anxious breaths and her body was trembling ever so slightly.

After prolonging the journey for what felt like an eternity, they came to stand in front of her chamber door. Pulling her arm free from his, Sansa turned gently towards him and lifted her head to gaze upon his face, her eyes searching his and a thick silence blanketing in the air.

Fleeting as the light was, Sandor could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the questions that ran heavy through her mind, the need for explanations, for reassurance, a balm for her worried thoughts. An unspoken understanding had wedged itself between them, a chasm which was seemingly driving them apart. He desperately wanted to reach out and close the void between them; to pull her closer to him, to make her understand how much he wanted her and needed her.

However, Sandor also knew he had caused the rift between them, that he was the one pushing her away. Almost instinctively, he had once again adorned himself with the invisible armor of brooding silence and innate hatred, wrapping his heart in its protection despite the internal struggle to fight against it.

Sandor feared that she knew; that when she looked in his eyes she understood the conflict, the regret, the ache, and ultimately she understood what he meant to do, what he must do for her sake. When she looked upon him, he felt as though she was seeing through him, exposing him for what he was or at least what he felt like in that moment.  _A coward, she must think me a coward. Craven against my own heart._

As a painful awareness began to flood her eyes, Sandor knew with a certainty that she was indeed seeing through him and, in doing so, seeing his intentions. Now the fear that gripped him was the thought that she would never know that everything he meant to do, he was doing for her; to protect her and to give her a chance at the happiness she deserved.

He felt ablaze under her incriminating stare, a look which burned more painfully than the scars on his face. Frenzied, Sandor turned to leave, but felt as she grabbed him by the arm, her fingers gripping him tightly and her words a pleading quiver out of her chest.

"Wait! Stay with me."

The words cut through him and rung hollow in the void he felt growing in his chest. He pondered the irony and wondered if she had spoken the words in an intentional jab at what she saw behind his eyes. Sandor shook his head before gently pulling his arm away from her.

"I can't do that, girl."

As he took a step away, she took a step towards him, a subtle panic setting in her eyes and her words coming breathy and pleading from her lips which were once again trembling.

"At least until I fall asleep. Please."

Once again, her words, simple and pleading, left him dumbfounded. As he turned towards her, she met his eyes, biting her lip to subdue its quivering and standing as tall as she could despite the trembling that had consumed her body. Sandor was in awe of what he saw and felt himself becoming more enamored by Sansa than he ever had been.

In King's Landing, Sansa Stark wore her own kind of armor; honeyed courtesies and child-like naïveté. Only after leaving King's Landing did Sandor come to understand how it had been out of necessity that she donned her invisible armor. Standing before him was still the woman she had become; her strength, determination, and gentle courage radiating from her. Yet in this moment she demonstrated a kind of strength Sandor never thought imaginable. While he was armoring his heart against the constant onslaught of emotions she evoked within him, she had seemingly shed her armor, yielding to her vulnerability and holding her heart before him.

In a daze brought on by bewilderment, Sandor nodded his head gently.

"Alright. Until you fall asleep."

Clearly relieved, Sansa let out deep sigh and nodded her head in return before pushing through the door of her chamber. The flame of the candle by her bedside had dwindled down to nothingness, spilling forth its wax and leaving the room cast in moonlight shadows.

As Sansa slipped beneath the covers, Sandor pulled the chair in the corner of the room next to her bed and settled in the seat. Succumbing to his exhaustion, Sandor rested his head gently on the back of the chair and closed his eyes, letting himself drift in and out of sleep. As he meandered back to consciousness, he could feel Sansa's eyes on him, burning through his skin and stirring him awake.

"Go to sleep, Sansa."

His words were edged with fatigue as they came out of his chest in a low rasp. With eyes still closed, he could hear the soft rustling of her bed covers and the movement of the straw in the mattress as her body shifted slightly.

"Little Bird."

While her voice was meek and unsure, Sandor heard her nonetheless as his eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling in confusion before tilting his head forward, staring at her with a furrowed brow.

"What?"

With wide eyes and a soft, curling smile to her lips, she stared back at him innocently yet her voice was reluctantly commanding as if he might refuse her of something she desperately needed.

"Little Bird. I want you to call me Little Bird."

Amused, he chuckled softly as she propped herself up on one elbow, meeting his stare with anticipation. Sandor settled back in his chair, crossing his arms and stretching out his legs.

"You're more a wolf these days than a Little Bird."

A dreamy smile swept over her face as she gazed up at him, her eyes glazed with something between subtle disappointment and playful defiance. Slowly, she let her eyes fall away from his and bit her lip as she had come to do whenever she grew nervous and unsure of herself.

"I suppose that's true, but can't I still be a Little Bird, if even just to you?"

Her words pierced his heart like hot steel, leaving him breathless and making his blood run cold. Perhaps it was the dreamy hopefulness of her voice or the adoration he thought he spied in her eyes that equipped her words with the ability to tear through him, making him feel as though his heart might stop beating. He knew she would never know, could never know how a question so simple and sweet could bring a man like him to his knees and make him feel as if his world was spinning out of control.

With a deep breath followed by an even deeper sigh, Sandor rose to his feet. Through eyes heavily hooded with sleep, she looked up at him, her face a mask of serenity. He leaned over slowly and kissed her gently on the forehead, letting his lips linger long enough to memorize the feel of her skin against his, before whispering softly.

"Aye, Little Bird. I suppose you can."

One foot in front of the other, he left her side, an infinitesimal glimpse of what he would eventually have to do. And as he closed the door softly behind him, he let his legs buckle underneath him, slumping to the ground with his back pressed against her door. In that quiet moment, Sandor understood, in a way he couldn't have possibly known before, just what he would be giving up.


	8. Chapter 8

**_'Humming. Who is humming?' Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. Hard and harder still. Hard until she felt as though the skin of her eyes would seal shut for eternity, entombing her in the shadow lands of darkness._ **

**_Or perhaps her eyes were already shut. Wrapped in a thick blanket of darkness, she knew not whether it was the darkness behind her eyes or the darkness of the night through which she was tumbling, head over feet. Tumbling turned to floating, floating through a dream, twirling uncontrollably towards the stars or perhaps falling to the ground, her body weightless and cascading through the darkness._ **

**_One and two and three and four. The pentameter of the humming was pounding through her limbs, hammering in her head. Not quite the voice of a child, but not the voice of man nor the voice of a woman, for that matter. The sounds met her ears and rung throbbing through her head until words began to form, quiet words almost indistinguishable behind the vibrations from the incessant humming._ **

**_As she lifted her hands to cover her ears, she found the skin of her arms was glowing, bathed in a lunar light which illuminated the darkness around her and embraced her softly in a sphere of shifting luminescence._ **

**_Breathing in deep, deep and deeper still, she pulled cold air into her lungs. As she exhaled, her breaths came vaporous from her body. Born from her breaths, a mist began unfolding before her, forming into familiar shapes before dissolving into the darkness and floating piece-wise as shadows against the black void. Bit by bit, the shapes gathered before her, eventually accumulating into a silhouette of a weirwood._ **

**_As intently as she bid them to close, Sansa willed her eyes to snap open, for the morning sun to vanquish the shifting shadows and the night to melt away into a distant memory._ **

**_'A dream. This is a dream. Just open your eyes. Open your eyes and it will go away. It will be morning and the darkness, the humming, the mist will be but a dream.'_ **

**_The humming had transformed into singing, the words melodically filling the darkness and seemingly illuminating the weirwood; the leaves a vibrant crimson and swaying softly in a phantasmal wind, the carved face weeping dark tears of sticky blood._ **

_**"But a dream, but a dream.** _

_**Our lives, our souls,** _

_**Are not what they seem."** _

**_Her uncontrolled floating came to an abrupt halt in front of the weirwood and Sansa found she was at once entranced and terrified. The form from which the singing emerged was obscured by shadows yet continued its song, the tone macabre and the words filling her with dread._ **

**_"Two dead direwolves, two dead Starks_ **

**_Two rest in the meadow, two rest in the dark_ **

**_Two dead direwolves, two dead Starks_ **

**_Their demise sung by the meadowlark_ **

**_Dead, dead, all four dead_ **

**_By the hands of traitors, lost their heads."_ **

**_Endlessly, it repeated its song, the words an unrelenting crescendo that she sensed was beckoning her to speak, to acknowledge its presence which in doing so would somehow bring it to life._ **

**_"Who are you?"_ **

**_The darkness surrounding the form lifted until a dim haze traced an outline around the being, betraying the presence of ears, four legs, and a tail. It remained utterly still as its song trailed off into a screaming silence._ **

**_"The girl asks a preposterous question. Who are any of us? I am everything. I am nothing. I am the darkness of the shadow moon. I am the blinding light of the sun of noon. I create, I destroy. I am the breath of life. I am the kiss of death."_ **

**_Undaunted as the form began to shift, padding slowly, one paw in front of the other, towards her, Sansa narrowed her eyes and huffed her frustration in a deep breath._ **

**_"I haven't time for your riddles. What is your name?"_ **

**_Feral eyes pierced through the inky darkness, amber cutting through black and reaching her in a fixed stare, the wildness behind its eyes strangely captivating her. As the voice began to speak again, she found that its words were no longer being spoken aloud but rather rang through her mind in an internal echoing. Seemingly, the being was speaking to her, eye to eye, mind to mind, soul to soul._ **

**_"Time, time. The shackles of your human experience. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Your precious time decaying away. Yet here you stand, defenseless against its passing. Go on! Cling to it if you will."_ **

**_Still the being paced towards her, deliberate and intentional in its step as Sansa stood transfixed. As the form reached her, a stifled gasp caught in her throat as she felt her rising fear stubbornly give way to a feigned defiance._ **

**_"I demand to know your name!"_ **

**_The form was once again dimmed until it was a silhouette in the darkness, a shifting shadow against the void of obscurity before her. A soft brushing of fur passed over the skin of her legs, which she had come to notice were bare. Startled, Sansa looked down, realizing for the first time that in place of clothes, her entire body was swathed in an ethereal light which radiated from her._ **

**_"I haven't a name. No more than the gusting of the wind, or the salt of the sea, or the fire of stars."_ **

**_A twinge of curiosity settled within her, sinking Sansa to her knees to meet the height of the form whose heavy breathing was rustling through her hair._ **

**_"Alright. You haven't a name. What are you then?"_ **

**_Slowly, the form began to circle her, its paws illuminating the ground in what looked like fallen starlight, the dust of the heavens kicked up as the beast padded around her._ **

**_"Who am I? What I am? How have I come to be? Why have I come to be? The same questions; one dressed as a knight, two dressed as a maiden, three dressed as a squire, four dressed as a Septon. Underneath, all are flesh and bone and blood. Same, same, all the same yet the girl demands my name!"_ **

**_Exasperated Sansa settled to the ground, sweeping her legs from underneath her and resting them to the side of her body, steadying herself as she felt the weight beginning to return to her body._ **

**_"Please. I'm trying to understand. If you could just tell me something, anything!"_ **

**_As the heaviness settled in her limbs, the glowing of her body suddenly fanned out in front of her, illuminating the form. As she lifted her eyes, the direwolf was resting on its hind legs, its fur bristling against a steady chill that pervaded the air around them. The beast began to speak, yet its jaw remained fixed and the words once again traveled the distance between its mind and hers, remaining unspoken but nonetheless understood._ **

**_"Sansa Stark. Solemn as the moon, radiant as the sun. I have nothing to tell. Yet I have much to show. Look not with your eyes lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be."_ **

**_In an instant, the direwolf sprung forth, propelling itself through the light emanating from her body and sending Sansa to the ground in an audible thud._ **

**_She whimpered as she hit the ground, helpless against the wolf's immense size and weight and finding her breath coming ragged from her body. Terrified as she was, she could not take her eyes off the beast and met its wild eyes which were rippled with a strange stirring._ **

**_"Remember, Sansa Stark. Look not with your eyes lest you will never see."_ **

**_Slowly, the direwolf lowered its jaws towards her. As her screams escaped her lungs, they cut through the darkness which ripped away in shreds as the wolf dissolved back into a vaporous mist which poured into her open mouth, filling her body until once again the light was extinguished and darkness filled her eyes._ **

**_As her gaze shifted to her left, trees whirled by at a furious pace as the ground beneath her melted into a blur. Her legs moved in a fluid, syncopated motion, carrying her deeper into a dense forest and accelerating her lithe form faster than she had ever moved before._ **

**_'Running. I'm running.'_ **

**_Sansa looked to the sky as a full moon hung beautifully against a tapestry of twilight. Suddenly, her instincts pulled her head back down and towards the frantic scurrying of a rabbit. At once, her senses were keenly aware of her surroundings as a familiarity filled her mind._ **

**_'I've been here. I know this place. This place is my home. These rocks, these trees, the river beyond. I know them all.'_ **

**_Her mind was snapped back into focus as the musky scent of fear filled her nose and spread into her lungs. Layer after layer, she deciphered the smells; fur and fear, blood and men, the rotting of wood and decaying of bodies, the dampened blanket of fallen leaves that covered the forest floor, and death. So much death._ **

**_The layering of scents invaded in her nose yet her mind remained fixed on the prey, which darted between trees and under the brush, frantically fleeing into the night. Still, she kept with it, pounce for pounce, her pace gaining steadily on the terrified animal._ **

**_A hunger like she had never known grumbled through her belly, filling her with a lust for something she had never lusted for._ **

**_'Blood and flesh. Tonight I feast on blood and flesh.'_ **

**_The thought filled her speeding legs with vigor as she sprung over a fallen log and landed with four paws on the ground. A distant howling cut through the night and rung in her ears whilst filling her with the warmth of kinship._ **

**_'Family. I have a family. My pack runs wild by my side.'_ **

**_As the forest of trees opened gradually to a clearing, she noticed the gentle sound of a river running next to her, the waters reflecting the light of the moon and illuminating her prey which had gradually succumb to exhaustion._ **

**_In a swift pounce, she flew through the air and landed with front paws on the rabbit. Instinctively, she pulled at the soft flesh of its neck, ripping away fur and skin and filling her mouth with the sweetness of blood. With an insatiable hunger, she greedily consumed the animal until a sound roused her feasting._ **

**_As she snapped her head up, a familiar scent mingled with the smell of blood which had come to soak the fur of her snout and was dripping from her teeth._ **

**_'The scent of man.'_ **

**_Slowly, she rose to four legs as her eyes settled on the form of a man emerging from the river, water dripping from his clothes. He did not seem to notice her as he removed his boots and upended them, dumping out water to the ground in a soft splash._ **

**_The man's face was gently folded with the precipice of age which was echoed through his grey hair. His eyes shone a brilliant blue and his scent remained distinguished in her mind._ **

**_'He smells familiar; somewhat distant, yet familiar.'_ **

**_Suddenly aware of her presence, the man turned on his heel and came to face her, remaining completely still despite the scent of fear pouring forth from every pore of his skin. In small, slow steps, the man backed away from her with arms extended in front of him. As the distance between them steadily increased, the man lowered his arms and stood still, eyeing her in wonderment and apprehension._ **

**_She knew not why, but she felt no need to give him chase. Instead, she studied him, feeling compelled to memorize his face and seek out the identity of his scent._ **

**_'Look not with your eyes lest you will never see.' The words materialized in her mind as the rustling of leaves began to whisper, quietly at first and then louder as the sounds came in a unified shout from each of the trees._ **

**_'Blackfish. Blackfish. Blackfish.'_ **

**_Louder and louder, the methodical chant rung through the night until one by one the trees surrounding her began to fade into nothingness. The river ceased its running, standing completely motionless before reversing, the water fleeing away into shadows. Once more, she lifted her eyes to the heavens as the moon came falling from the sky, careening towards her, screaming as it fell, until her vision was filled with its blinding light._ **

When Sansa's eyes finally snapped open, her vision was a blur of faces, their outline gradually clearing into distinct shapes. Somehow she had thrown her body forward, sitting upright in an instant and her chest heaving as she desperately sucked deep breaths of air into her burning lungs. Trembling, she lifted her hands to her cheeks which were slick with tears.

As Sansa's racing heart slowed its beat, she rubbed away the tears from her eyes and saw as Brienne and Sandor stood over her, the strained look of concern heavy upon their faces. The Elder Brother was situated to the left of Brienne, his hands gently folded together in front of him with his perpetual serenity enveloping him. Septon Meribald hesitantly peaked his head from around Sandor before pushing his way forward to Sansa's side.

Before he could reach her, Sansa bolted from the bed and, to her amazement, her aching legs carried her steadily to the empty wash basin on the opposite side of the room. She rested her hands on either side of the basin and hung her head, bracing herself to vomit. Her stomach turned as the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, seemingly originating from the back of her throat. With forceful heaves, Sansa retched up the miniscule contents of her stomach, which were devoid of the blood she was certain would be there.

As she lifted herself up and slowly turned around, she realized all eyes in the room were heavy upon her; a quartet of startled faces quietly evaluating her and each hesitant to break the silence that had descended upon the room. As the fog of fatigue lifted and her stomach settled, Sansa realized they were apparently waiting for her to address the heavy tension that had come to fill her chamber. She obliged with the immediate thoughts that sprung forth in her mind.

"I could have sworn my mouth was full of blood. Was I not bleeding?"

Brienne stepped forward as the others exchanged confused looks. With a sly smile, Sansa laughed quietly to herself.  _I have done little to ease whatever has come to vex them. If anything, I have succeeded only in confusing them even more._

"My lady, we heard you screaming. Awful, gut wrenching screams. When we entered your chamber, you were asleep, but in the midst of what seemed a terrible dream. We could not rouse you. All four of us tried."

Sansa made her way back to her bed in small steps lest her legs give out from underneath her. Every muscle in her body seemed to ache and her head was throbbing, the light of the sun a blinding orb stinging her eyes. Gently, she lowered herself and sat on the edge of the straw mattress that made up her bed.

"I dreamt, but it didn't feel like a dream. It felt real. I…I was…"

Sansa lifted her eyes, apprehensive to relay her dream, afraid at how she might sound. The dream had not simply been vivid; it had left her body feeling exhausted, battered and broken. Her muscles pulsed with pain as if she had been running, she awoke still tasting the blood of her prey, her stomach growling at the absence of the flesh and blood it had been promised.  _Indeed, this was no ordinary dream._

Her mind meandered to Old Nan's stories of northern lore; fabled tales of the green seers and wargs, skin changers who slipped into the bodies of beasts. Bran and Arya had been entirely enchanted by these tales, eager to hear more and anxious to interrupt with a myriad of questions for the old woman. Sansa would voice her protest in whimpering complaints, begging Old Nan to retell stories of the Dragon Knight or Florian's boundless love for Jonquil. In truth, the tales of northern magic had frightened Sansa. The Starks were descendants of the first men, bound to their land by blood and by magic; a magic which silently pervaded the earth itself, its power a whisper in the wind and a reminder that dark and terrible things had once roamed the north, beings made of ice and unimaginable cold.

Disturbed by the implications of her dream, Sansa pushed the thoughts from her mind as she wiped the edges of her mouth with the sleeve of her robe. Sandor had come to stand beside her; his form a shadow which stood over her and his instincts somehow sensing the growing unsettlement that had come to fill her. He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, a reassuring gesture which instantaneously soothed her.

"Go on, Little Bird. We're listening."

Sansa started from the beginning; the sound of humming, the perplexing and haunting words of the mournful song, the direwolf that formed from the darkness and how she seemingly wore its skin, and the man she saw emerging from the river.  _Blackfish. The trees, the moon, the earth itself sung his name. Blackfish. But could it really have been him?_

As she finished, Septon Meribald and the Elder Brother exchanged a look, their eyes somehow communicating something they preferred to remain unspoken, perhaps something that was better left unspoken. Too fatigued to inquire about their silent exchange, Sansa lifted her head towards Brienne who was already intently staring back at her.

"Lady Brienne, look not in Riverrun for Brynden Tully for you will not find him there. The man in my dream was him. He emerged on the banks of the Trident; exactly where I am not sure, but the man I saw was him, of that much I am sure."

The Maid of Tarth remained silent, her mouth agape and her face contorted in a look of utter puzzlement. In the periphery of Sansa's vision, Sandor's shadow shifted in unison with his body as he rocked his weight from one leg to the other with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest.

"Little Bird, how can you be sure? Have you ever even met the Blackfish?"

Without meeting his stare, Sansa pulled her robe tighter to her body, clutching at the fabric and suddenly feeling the heaviness as all eyes were once again fixed on her, the glimmering of skepticism cutting through her.  _They look at me as if I'm a child._

"I said I was certain it was him. It makes no matter how I know."

With a curt nod, Sandor retreated from her, his shadow gradually lifting from over her with sunlight filling its void. As he reached the door, he turned his head slightly over his shoulder, the burned side of his mouth twitching ever so slightly brought on by what seemed to be frustration.

"After breaking our fast, we leave for Braavos. I will wait for you in the common hall. Don't make me wait long."

Despite the sun's persistent glare across her skin, his sudden iciness sent chills through her body. Wordlessly, the others filed out of the room, one by one, after Sandor, each glancing back at Sansa with sympathetic looks and soft eyes, offering her an unspoken token of encouragement and comfort. While appreciative of their sentiment, Sansa found it did little to soothe the stinging of Sandor's sudden brusqueness.

With a deep sigh, she pushed herself up from the bed. Her legs throbbed in protest as she paced her room, working out the soreness before pulling off her robe and dressing in her freshly cleaned dress.

Once again, Sansa worked over the memories of her dream. She had awoken with her senses keenly aware of her surroundings, her perceptions easily piercing through the undercurrents she had been blind to for so long.  _I awoke with the senses of the wolf._

_'Look not with your eyes, lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be.'_

Sansa pondered the meaning of the words as she released the melody from her mind, letting it flitter off to the shadows of her thoughts.

_I have seen with my soul, but what exactly was my soul meant to be?_

With the clarity of her perceptions slowly fading, she could not come up with an answer, but instead was left with an unsettling feeling that she would, for better or for worse, come to find the meaning of the direwolf's song.

* * *

As Sandor stepped from Sansa's room, he felt the sourness of his mood take hold of him, powerless to stave it off and finding that it was becoming easier just to succumb to it. Sleep had not come easy to him the night before. When he was finally blessed with rest, it had been fitful and his dreams had been strange. The fatigue was beginning to settle in his bones, inflaming his already short temper.

The thought of traveling to Braavos made his stomach turn. The journey to get there would be dangerous, he knew. Septon Meribald would accompany them, which would undoubtedly slow their pace and potentially draw unwanted attention to them. However, Sandor was well aware that the aching in his chest and the churning of his stomach had little to do with the journey to Braavos, but rather had everything to do with what would happen when the time would come for Sansa to leave Braavos and for him to stay behind.

With his future in Westeros becoming increasingly bleak and uncertain, Sandor had made the reluctant and painful decision to stay behind in Braavos; to let Sansa go so that she might find the happiness she was so deserving of. Although desperate as he was to be the man she needed, the doubt had begun to splinter through and it been enough for him to come to the solemn conclusion that he needed to let her fly.  _I may long for her, but I doubt she longs for a dog like me._

He had heard her screams echoing from off the stone walls of the main building, ringing from her chamber and tumbling down the hall to meet his ears. Sandor was not a man who ran to get where he needed to go. Heavily muscled and tall as he was, running proved an entirely inefficient way to get around. Yet as he heard her screaming, his legs carried him as fast as they could towards her chamber. As he frantically burst through her door, he had all but expected to find Ser Hyle there. The man had an ill-guised and lascivious lust for Sansa and Sandor had not put it past the prick to sneak into her chambers and forcefully take what he so obviously wanted from her. To his immense relief, Ser Hyle was nowhere to be found, but instead Sansa was alone in her bed, thrashing about violently, the thin blankets twisting around her legs and her screams muffled as her face pressed into her pillow.

Grabbing her by the shoulders and calling her name, he had tried to wake her, but to no avail. After a few moments, she calmed slightly and had come to lie perfectly still, but let out soft whimpers as her face contorted in what appeared to be pain. Brienne was not long after him and came bursting into the room with her sword drawn and her eyes wild with something between fear and rage, obviously expecting to find Ser Hyle in Sandor's place.

In soft, hurried steps, the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald had shuffled into the room and each tried in vain to rouse her from whatever nightmare had come to torment her so thoroughly. When Sansa had finally awoke, she sat up abruptly and was gasping for air, her skin pale as snow and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Breathless and obviously reeling, she relayed the details of her dream with bewilderment gleaming in her eyes.

Sansa had been wholly convinced that the man in her dream was the Blackfish, yet she had never met her great uncle. Sandor was not one to read too deeply into dreams and couldn't help but point out the discrepancy, which apparently did not sit well with Sansa. Instantaneously he had felt his mood darken and heard his words leave his lips harsher than he intended.

In long strides, Sandor headed towards the common hall, letting his legs carry him away in hurried steps as Brienne, the Elder Brother, and Septon Meribald followed. When he reached the hall, he slumped into the nearest chair and watched as the others followed suit, seating themselves around him.

With hands waving excitedly in the air, Septon Meribald began to chatter, his voice cheerfully filling the common room.

"Extraordinary! The girl is a warg, I tell you!"

Brienne stifled a laugh, the air in her lungs escaping in a slight snort as she shook her head. While Sandor had sensed a fondness between Brienne and Sansa, he gathered that the Maid of Tarth had also considered Sansa's dream with hesitant skepticism.

"A warg? Pardon my boldness, but you can't be serious. Lady Sansa dreamed of being a wolf. I once had a dream that I was a horse. That hardly makes me a warg."

Septon Meribald's jovial disposition darkened, his smile melting away as he solemnly pressed his lips together and let his hands come to rest on the table. He leaned in close, his voice lowering to scarcely above a whisper as if willing his words to remain within the circle of individuals about the table. As he spoke, his eyes fell deliberate and fixed on Brienne, then the Elder Brother, and finally came to rest on Sandor.

"As a child, my mother talked of northerners; their blood ran cold through their veins, she said. They speak to the beasts of the forests and ward off creatures of made of ice and snow. The sons and daughters of the north are infused with the magic of old, the Starks in particular and most of all. How else could they have ruled the vastness of the north as the Kings of Winter? Many possess the power to slip into the skin of beasts as easily as you or I slip in and out of our clothes. Some call it a gift, others call it an abomination. It makes no matter. Courteous and gentle as she is, the Lady Sansa is still a Stark, blood of the first men. The magic of the north has been stirred in her. A tremendous pity should we underestimate the power and the meaning of her dream."

Although loathe to admit it, Sandor knew the Septon's words were tinged with a strange truth. Although he hailed from the Westerlands, Sandor, like most in Westeros, knew that northerners were an unnatural sort; as stoic and unyielding as the ice that covered their lands in winter yet profoundly and entirely devoted to duty and honor, disdainful of the pleasures and indulgence of the southron way of life.

What little time Sandor had spent in Winterfell had been enough to convince him that all he had heard of the north and its people was true. He had scoffed at their superstitions, which to him seemed entirely preposterous. He had japed that Starks used direwolves as wet nurses. Even the youngest Stark, a child of no more than three, had a direwolf steadfast by his side. Sandor had found Ned Stark's nightly ritual of praying beneath a weirwood to be laughable.

Since a young age, Sandor had been surrounded by the lavishness and intrigue of the southron courts where hollow courtesies, rich wines, and scheming manipulations flowed thick as honey. The northern culture and their hardened way of life was unusual and completely foreign to him. In place of wine, they drank dark ale and although he much preferred wine, he drank it anyway, eager to let his time in the north pass by in a drunken haze. Even the northern whores were enslaved by a deep rooted sense of honor and tradition which he had found to be absurd given their profession.

Despite all of this, Sandor had been keenly aware of something unsettling about the way the wind blew in the north, the way the clouds layered the sky in grey sheets, and the way the biting cold soaked through to the bone. He had only needed to look in the eyes of each northernman to know that they felt it too yet dared not speak of what  _it_ was.

The Elder Brother nodded his head, his eyes cast in a sober stare set firmly on Brienne. The man sighed deeply as he often did before starting in on his monologues of profundity. It wasn't until that moment that Sandor realized the Elder Brother had remained silent throughout the morning. While he wasn't necessarily a talkative man, Sandor assumed he would have had something to say in response to Sansa's dream, some piece of wisdom to share. Instead, the Elder Brother's quietude had enveloped him, somehow adding to the gravity of Septon Meribald's words and lent validity to Sansa's seemingly prophetic dream. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained with fatigue, his ominous tone matching his words.

"Septon Meribald speaks truly, Lady Brienne. Lest we have forgotten, winter is now upon us. The north as a whole stirs and with it strange things are brought to life. You would do well to take a leap of faith and trust in our little warg, for I believe what Lady Sansa saw in her dream she saw through the eyes of a wolf."

Brienne shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence before turning to look at Sandor, tilting her head slightly and narrowing her eyes, sapphire blue peering out between the slits.

"Clegane, did Sansa have these sorts of dreams while she was in King's Landing?"

_I can scarcely imagine what sorts of dream Sansa had while in King's Landing._

Between her father's beheading, the subsequent purging of the Stark household, and Joffrey's sadism, her entire time in King's Landing was undoubtedly a waking nightmare. Warg or not, any dream was surely a welcomed reprieve from all she had suffered while in King's Landing and regardless, she had certainly never confided in him about her sleeping visions.

"I know not of what she dreams, no more than any of you."

By the confounded look on her face, this did not seem to be the answer that Brienne was looking for. In so many words, the woman was looking for Sandor's opinion on the matter, but far be it for her to outright ask. Instead, the Maid of Tarth rested her chin heavily in one hand with her other arm crossed about her chest, her lips pressed together in a defeated scowl. Sandor couldn't help but smile.  _She's got quite a bit of pride, I give her that._

Sandor's memories drifted back to the throne room in King's Landing and the day Sansa was beaten and stripped before the entire court in payment for her brother's victories in the Westerlands. While the memory had always come back to him in a blur of rage, a detail was beginning to pierce through the veil of regret and anger. Joffrey had called on Lancel Lannister to tell the entire court of Robb Stark's treasons. While it was not the answer Brienne was looking for, it was all he had to offer.

"It was widely known that Robb Stark rode into battle with his direwolf by his side. The beast could savage man and horse alike. Stories emerged from the Battle of Oxcross that Robb sent in an army of wargs to ravage Lannister forces."

Brienne shook her head, apparently unappeased. "You never fought any battles against the Young Wolf, only Stannis Baratheon. You can't know this to be true."

Sandor huffed his annoyance. Not only was Brienne proud, she was stubborn; two traits which were contributing to her lack of understanding at what he was getting at.

"I was twelve when Tywin Lannister lent his swords to Robert's Rebellion. I got my first taste of battle alongside northernmen, Ned Stark's men. I've seen how they fight and I've seen how they die. I wouldn't know a warg if I saw one, but that's hardly the point. Northerners are a different sort. It's entirely possible the Blackfish slipped away from Riverrun. Bloody hell, what do I know! I suppose it's even possible that Sansa somehow saw this in a dream. If Brynden Tully did escape, he most likely would have emerged from the Trident. Your search for him should begin there."

She had been too proud to ask for his advice, to ask what he would do if in her position, what to make of Sansa's dream, yet Sandor gave his advice anyway. With a sudden resolve, the Maid of Tarth pushed herself from the table and stood firmly on her feet, glowing with her usual sense of honor and duty.

"The day is quick upon us. I had best wake Pod to saddle the horses and begin gathering our provisions." With that Brienne, bowed slightly at the waist and exited the room with sweeping strides and an eagerness to begin the journey ahead painted on her face.

Septon Meribald followed suit, slowly lifting himself up from the table and mumbling to himself about the preparations for their travels to Dyre Den and then Braavos. As the Septon left the room, Sandor could feel the Elder Brother's eyes on him, burning hot through his skin. Within the little time Sandor had come to know him, he knew the Elder Brother carried his burdens in his body, letting his troubles rest heavy in his limbs and line the subtle folds of his face.

Sitting across from him at the table, the Elder Brother was seemingly filling the room with his worries, purging them from his body and letting them loose to meander about the void of silence between them. After what felt an eternity, the man began to speak, his voice reserved and thin.

"The time draws near for us to part."

Sandor lifted his eyes slightly and saw that the Elder Brother was staring intently at him. Sandor shifted his weight and settled back into his seat, resting his chin in his hand and contemplating the man before him whose cloak of perpetual serenity was diminishing with each passing second. Mindlessly, the man was drumming his fingers on the table, unspoken words halted on his lips.  _I am making him nervous._

The surmounting tension was kindling to Sandor's already darkening mood, succeeding only in infusing it with frustration.

"What is it that you want me to say? What exactly do you need to hear from me? I've said all I've needed to say."

With an exasperated exhale, the Elder Brother stood, head shaking in discontent and letting his eyes look down upon Sandor. The man circled around the table until he stood by Sandor's side and placed a hand heavily on his shoulder, squeezing slightly as if willing his words into Sandor's unmoving form.

"You see so much, Clegane, more than most. Your eyes cut through deception and lies, you pick away at the guises and masks so many of us wear. You see the world for what it is, not what you wish it to be. And yet you are so very blind to what is in front of you."

With that the Elder Brother slowly made his way to the door, shaking his head along the way and muttering  _'so very blind'_  under his breath as if it was some sort of mantra to soothe his troubled mind.  _Or perhaps he is baiting me. The man knows me too well._ Sandor snorted a sarcastic laugh and swiveled slightly in his seat, turning over his shoulder towards the retreating man.

"Blind to what is in front of me…what would that be? An old knight who worries like a maiden on her wedding night? Because that's all I see in front of me,  _Ser._ " The inflection of his words was biting and, like he had hoped, stopped the Elder Brother in mid-step. However, the man did not turn around, but rather let his head hang over his left shoulder, averting his eyes to the floor.

"Mock all you like, but should you leave her, you will rue that day. Oh how you'll rue that day!"

Without another word, the Elder Brother shuffled from the room, pale as a ghost and swathed in a layer of disquiet which had come to replace the cloak of serenity he so often wore. Sandor could read between the lines, interpret all that was left unsaid between the two of them. True enough, their lives seemed to have been led in parallel; both battle-born and having died by the sword to be resurrected in the maddening silence of the Isle, haunted by the lives they left behind. But Sandor was also keenly aware that his future with Sansa represented the life the Elder Brother left unfulfilled; the man's sense of closure seemingly hinged upon vicariously experiencing Sandor's happiness at keeping his Little Bird, living out their lives in bliss. Sandor felt a bitter laugh erupt from his chest.  _The man is as wrapped up in bloody fantasies as the Little Bird. A creature like Sansa Stark would never want to live out her life with the likes of me._

"What are you laughing at?"

Somehow, Sansa had floated into the room, materializing from his thoughts to come and stand next to him. No longer wearing the over-sized robe, she stood before him in the dress she had worn when he came upon her. Where the robe was over-sized, her dress was a bit undersized; gathering tightly about her bust and clinging to her waist and hips before falling just below her ankles. Her hair was braided in the northern style and tumbled in loose, auburn curls to her waist. Truly, she was becoming more of a woman with each passing day and in turn becoming more breathtaking as well.

A warm smile flooded her face as she moved closer to him, the fabric of her dress brushing against his bare forearm and the honeyed scent of her hair filling his lungs.

"Well, whatever was so funny you should have shared it with the Elder Brother. I came upon him in the hall and he seems rather distraught."

Still smiling, her voice was gentle and sweet, her eyes sparkling a radiant blue. Sandor watched as she folded her hands in front of her and softly bit her bottom lip as she had come to do whenever deep in thought. He felt his stomach flip at the sight of her, his mind become a nest of jumbled thoughts, and his breath quickened in time with the beating of his heart.

The Western folk had claimed to have produced the most radiant queen in Cersei Lannister that the Seven Realms had ever known. Sandor remembered when Cersei had been young, a little older than Sansa when she took the throne. The woman had been beautiful, there was no disputing that, but there was no comparison with Sansa who glowed with a genuine kindness and gentleness that Cersei could never have hoped to possess. However, it wasn't her unearthly beauty that made Sandor feel as though he was losing control; it was the way she looked at him with a sweetness and affection he had never known before. She  _looked_ at him; not through him or to the side of him, but at him, at him like he was a human being and not a killer or a dog or a monster.

Riled by the instantaneous flustering he felt at Sansa's presence, Sandor pushed himself from his seat and stumbled forward as his foot inadvertently caught underneath his chair, which then went tumbling behind him. Laughing, Sansa caught him by the arms and pushed her weight up against his to steady him on his feet. Sandor let his eyes dart about the room to avoid her smiling and playful gaze, desperately searching for something else at which to focus his stare.

He wanted to tell her how gorgeous she was, to tell her how entirely undeserving he felt to have her looking at him like  _that_. Most of all, he wanted to tell her how much he wanted to be deserving of her smiles and her sweetness, but didn't know where to start or how to even do it.

Instead, he pulled himself away from her and brusquely plucked the chair from the floor, throwing it back towards the table where it hit with a thud. His breath was coming out in huffs as he began to pace towards the door.

"I told you not to make me wait, girl."

As he reached the door, Sandor had expected her to follow, to scamper after him frightened and following his lead. Sansa did not follow, but instead stood with her back to him and dropped her head, hands still folded in front of her. Sandor stood beneath the frame of the door, waiting to hear her footfalls behind him. For many moments, they both stood where they were; him at the door and her with her back to him, both unwilling to yield to the other.  _Seven hells, what is it about the bloody Quiet Isle that makes women suddenly so stubborn?_

With a deep groaning sigh, Sandor turned towards Sansa with arms crossed about his chest and leaning up against the door frame. Slowly, Sansa turned around with her hands clutched in fists by her side and her chin held high and her eyes contemplating him with irritation. Once again, he had misjudged her, having expected her to shrink away in fear, avoiding his stare with tears in her eyes.

"I hardly feel you were made to wait so very long."

With that, she took quick steps to the door, her dress shuffling about her legs as she moved. As she came to the door, she stopped in front of him, shooting him an aggravated look with her jaw clenched before heading off down the corridor and forcing him to be the one to follow after her.

Follow her he did, down the corridor several paces behind her until they reached the outer doors. As she pushed her weight against the door, Sandor took a few hurried paces and slid between her and the door, blocking her exit with his form. Taking a step back, Sansa stood firmly on her feet and crossed her arms about her chest, averting her stare off the ground, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Have I done something wrong? Besides making you wait…" Her words were laced with sarcasm, her tone mocking him playfully, but insistently.

"No. No you haven't. But we had best get going. We have a long journey ahead of us, dangerous too, and we will have to break our fast in the saddle. We will need to fi-"

Sandor's rambling was interrupted as he felt two tiny hands wrap around one of his and Sansa took a step closer to him, her eyes sweeping across his face and a slight smile emerging on the crease of her lips.  _Seven hells. She's looking at me like that again._

Sandor let his eyes wander about the ceiling and then down the corridor, anywhere and everywhere but Sansa who was still staring at him steadfastly, quietly demanding that he meet her gaze. When he finally did, he heard as her breath caught in her chest and saw as her eyes widened and her sly smile gave way to a sweeping grin.

"I've never seen you worry so much. Everything will be fine. You'll see."

With that, she lifted herself on her toes and planted a soft kiss on his unburned cheek before pushing past him and through the outer door, leaving him dumbfounded. As the scent of her lingered in the air, Sandor lifted his hand to his cheek and let his fingertips run along the spot where she kissed him and felt as a gratified smile threatened his lips.  _If she keeps doing things like that, I will lose my bloody mind._

As he pushed through the outer doors and into the yard, a thick layer of fog blanketed the ground, swirling about his ankles as he walked towards the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald who were saddling two rounceys and a mare.

Sansa emerged from the fog, pacing from around the other side of the mare and giving him a shy smile as she came up to his side. Evaluating the horses, Sandor realized the assortment of steeds were meant for himself, Septon Meribald, and Sansa. With irritation bubbling up from within him, Sandor turned towards the Elder Brother.

"Stranger is the only horse I mean to ride. Where is he?"

Before the Elder Brother could respond, Septon Meribald interjected, shrugging his shoulders and contemplating Sandor with an amicable smile.

"Your horse shares your fearsome reputation it seems. We thought it best that Driftwood stays here at the Isle until you return."

"Is that so? Where was I when this decision was being made?"

Sandor pressed his lips together in an angry scowl before setting an icy glare towards the Elder Brother who met his eyes with a subtle defiance.  _Bloody prick. The man means to ensure that I must return to the Quiet Isle, whether I will it or no._

Sandor's attention was roused as he felt Sansa wrap her arms around one of his, turning her body towards him and tugging gently on his arm, a silent pleading gesture.

"Sandor, they're right. You said it yourself, our journey is dangerous. If leaving Stranger here means we'll draw less attention to ourselves then that is for the best, is it not? Besides, Stranger will be here when we get back."

Silently, Sandor nodded his head. Her words felt like a knife to his heart; the hopeful inflection in her voice, the sweetness interwoven as she said 'when  _we_ get back,' and the joy behind her smile. Behind her stood the Elder Brother, staring at him intently with displeasure creasing his face and ominous admonition radiating from his body.

The intensity of the moment was shattered as Brienne, Podrick, and Ser Hyle cantered up, hooves softly clopping against the ground. As Brienne swung from her horse, Sansa pulled away from Sandor and paced towards the Maid of Tarth.

"Lady Sansa, I wish you safe passage to Braavos. You are in good hands." Brienne lifted her eyes towards Sandor, nodding her head slightly and flashing a warm smile before turning back towards Sansa.

"Thank you, Lady Brienne. I will pray for your safe journey as well. Your kindness and willingness to help me in my cause will not be forgotten."

With that, Sansa turned her gaze towards Podrick and Ser Hyle, both still mounted on their horses.

"Podrick, Ser Hyle. Best of luck to you both." Ever the lady, Sansa bent slightly at the knees, giving a polite curtsey.

Flustered, Podrick blushed a deep shade of red and let his eyes dart about before mumbling an inaudible response. Ser Hyle reciprocated Sansa's icy courtesy and bowed at the waist before lifting his eyes to hers.

"My lady, I eagerly await our next meeting. It cannot come soon enough."

The man shifted his eyes towards Sandor with a devious smile plastered on his face, crooked teeth peering out from the devilish curve of his lips.

As the others exchanged farewells, Sandor came up to Sansa, his eyes still locked onto Ser Hyle, and looped his arm in hers, pulling her back a few paces as Ser Hyle swept his eyes up and down her form once more.  _I should have slit the bastard's throat in the night._

They watched as the trio set off towards the northern horizon until their forms disappeared in the fog, enveloped by the mist and no longer distinguishable. A subtle chill pervaded the air as the wind began to pick up, caressing the fabric of his cloak which rustled softly in response. As Sandor lifted his eyes to the sky, he saw that the sun had been blotted out by a layer of grey clouds steadily marching in from the north.

Sansa stirred beside him, shifting herself closer to his side in an effort to shield herself from the biting chill of the wind. Sandor let his eyes fall to her, watching as the breeze mingled about strands of her hair, auburn ribbons dancing in the wind and wrapping gently about his arms.

"Come, girl. Unless we plan on getting caught in a storm, we had best take our leave soon."

Septon Meribald nodded his head adamantly in agreement before clumsily climbing atop one of the rounceys, nearing falling off as the horse trotted forward a few paces whilst neighing in protest at the man's weight.

Arm still looped in hers, Sandor led Sansa to the mare and softly placed his hands about her waist and spied as her lips parted slightly and her chest tightened at his touch. Carefully, he lifted her to the saddle, her hands placed gently on his shoulders as she steadied herself until finding her balance. For a moment, she kept her hands at his shoulders, allowing her fingers to gingerly intertwine within the strands of his hair and staring at him sweetly with wide eyes.  _That look again. Seven fucking hells, that look._

With an unbidden fluttering in his chest and words fleeing his mind, Sandor retreated from her and pulled himself up onto the other rouncey in one sweeping motion. He was none too pleased to be leaving behind Stranger and riding the old and worn rouncey in his horse's place, but even he had to admit that Stranger was more than temperamental and posed a potential threat to his identity, as if his tell-tale scars weren't already damning.

The Elder Brother stepped towards Sansa, taking her hand in his and kissing it lightly.

"My Lady, I will send for you when word comes about your uncle or your sister or, Gods be good, both. May the old Gods and the new protect you all on this journey."

Before she could respond, the Elder Brother spun on his heel towards Sandor, his face darkening to a mask of somberness, seemingly portending some unforetold misfortune.

"Forget not what I have told you… _all_  that I have told you."

The Elder Brother shifted his adamant stare towards Sansa, whose brow was furrowing in confusion as her eyes alternated back and forth between Sandor and the Elder Brother, not understanding the sudden attention that had been placed upon her.

Wordlessly, Sandor narrowed his eyes at the Elder Brother and curtly nodded his head in an abrupt farewell before digging his heels in the rouncey which bolted forward in a few quick paces. Septon Meribald and Sansa followed suit, trailing behind Sandor as they left the Elder Brother standing amongst wind and fog, his quietude apparently jarred and a foreboding uneasiness settled heavy in its place.

As the sun rode up in the sky, piercing through the smattering of grey clouds above them, Sandor pushed ahead at a speeding pace, knowing that Maidenpool was half a day's ride away from the Quiet Isle. With Randyll Tarly sending out men to scout the area near the Saltpans, Sandor knew passing by Maidenpool would be the most dangerous portion of their journey.  _If they find us, Sansa and I will be dragged back to King's Landing, our heads placed nicely on spikes outside the Red Keep._

With that thought hanging heavily in his mind, Sandor grinded his heels harder into the rouncey which neighed loudly in complaint yet stubbornly maintained the same pace. With his frustration growing, Sandor cursed into the wind, regretting his compliance to the suggestion that he leave Stranger behind. Septon Meribald and Sansa struggled to keep pace with Sandor, their horses slowing with exhaustion with each passing hour and the discomfort written clearly across Sansa's face.

When traveling to the Quiet Isle, Sandor had pushed Stranger at a speeding pace then. Prior to that, Sansa had ridden alongside Lord Royce, who had hurriedly pushed along their journey, no doubt. Likely, Sansa had never ridden this hard in her life and the fatigue was beginning to color her form. Sandor observed the subtle wincing each time her mare's hooves crashed to the ground.  _We can't slow our pace._   _Not now, anyway._ _Hang on, Little Bird._

The sight of her struggling in the saddle prompted Sandor to once more mutter his annoyance into the dead air in front of him. He should have had Sansa ride double with him so that she could succumb to her exhaustion, settle back into his arms and worry not about controlling the horse.

Sandor swept his eyes across the landscape surrounding them; the soft sloping of hills extended to their right, treeless lumps in the land that offered no protection from peering eyes and eager swords. To their left and about a half mile away, the shore of the bay extended alongside them, keeping pace as they raced forward in an open field. Unlike their journey to the Quiet Isle from the Vale, the landscape boasted no forest, rendering their path conspicuous, each of them easy targets contrasted against an open horizon.

Sandor liked it not and felt as his grip unwittingly tightened on the reins while his eyes anxiously darted about the open land in front and to the sides of them. He felt the warmth of the sun on his back as the clouds dissolved away, leaving a sky of blue in their absence.  _Bloody hell! We should have waited until nightfall to set out._

In the distance, Sandor spotted the castle of Maidenpool, sitting starkly at the top of a hill, its walls blackened by fire and pocked with the destruction that had ensued there. Abruptly, he pulled hard on the horse's reins, shifting their path to the south. The sight of the castle took him off guard and he felt as his heart began to beat hard against his chest. Sandor turned his head over his shoulder, ensuring that Septon Meribald and Sansa were quick behind him, and found as Sansa stared wide-eyed and terrified at the sight of Maidenpool so close to them. Biting her lip, she drove her heels into her mare, which replied instantaneously to her urging and bolted forward.

Sweeping to the south, Sandor put as much distance between them and Maidenpool as he could and taking advantage of the hills that lay to the south, riding up amongst them to gain whatever veil of protection they could. As Maidenpool faded into the distance behind them, Sandor breathed a sigh of relief. Once he was sure they were well past Maidenpool, Sandor slowed his pace slightly and shifted their direction of travel back towards the north, following along the shore of the bay which faithfully led their way.

As the sun descended behind them and the moon rode up in its place, Sandor searched out a place to rest for the evening. To his relief, the landscape ahead of them was folded with hills with thin clusters of tall trees dispersed at the bottom. The darkness began to enfold them and Sandor scanned the horizon surrounding them, seeking out any presence of fellow travelers; the flickering of flames, the rising of smoke, the sound of hooves. Thankfully, the area surrounding them was blessedly quiet and devoid of any traces of men.

Cantering into the largest cluster of trees he could find, Sandor slowed his rouncey to a stop and wheeled around, facing a visibly exhausted Sansa and an uncharacteristically irritated Septon Meribald. Sandor lowered himself from his horse, reining the beast to a tree before pacing towards Sansa's mare.

As Sandor gently pulled Sansa from the saddle, she winced in pain, her legs trembling from the incessant riding and clinging to him until she found her balance.

Septon Meribald slid off of the saddle, his legs wobbling as his feet hit the ground. The man stumbled towards Sandor, his finger wagging shamefully as he approached.

"You might have considered we have a lady traveling with us before you decided to proceed at a pace akin to a bat escaping one of the Seven Hells."

Sandor snorted an annoyed laugh before waving the man off and reining Sansa's mare to a tree.

"Have you considered what might happen to our Lady if Tarly's men came upon us? Or better yet, what might happen if bloody outlaws were to find us? I'm sure the Little Bird would prefer saddle sores over raping."

The foulness of Sandor's mood reverberated through his words and left the Septon agape at his vulgarity, his face darkening to a shade of red that Sandor never thought possible on the man.

"How dare you speak like that in front of Lady Sansa!"

The man charged towards Sandor, hands flailing in the air into an unbridled outburst of fury that Sandor found almost laughable.

In a few hurried stumbles, Sansa had placed herself between Sandor and the Septon, her arms reaching out towards the irate Septon and her voice thick with exhaustion yet pleading all the same.

"Stop, please. I do not need you to defend my honor. Although crudely put, Sandor speaks the truth; we needed to pass Maidenpool as quickly as possible."

As the flush of anger retreated from his face, the Septon begrudgingly backed away, turning towards his horse and rummaging through the saddle bag with a defeated scowl lingering on his weathered face.

With the strain of weariness ravaging her limbs, Sansa let her legs buckle from underneath her and slumped to the ground with a soft whimper. Sandor felt a pang of guilt as she gently rubbed her legs with tiny tears glistening in her eyes. As the Septon preoccupied himself with his horse, Sandor came kneeling in front of her, brushing his hand under her chin and lifting her gaze to meet his. With an embarrassed blush, she let her eyes fall away from his, twin tears spilling over her cheeks, one on each side.

"I'm fine. I'm just sore is all."

The softness of her voice did little to ease Sandor's mind. Desperately, he wanted to pull her into his arms, kiss away her tears, and caress away the pain he had inadvertently caused. Instead, he ran the back side of his hand over her cheeks, one at a time, wiping away the tears and letting his hand linger, catching each tear until no more came.  _Bloody buffoon! You broke your Little Bird._

"I'm sorry, Little Bird. I'm sorry. It's just that if anything had happened to you…" Sandor's voice trailed off, unwilling to finish his thoughts and distracted as her hands came up to meet his, her eyes searching his, seeing through to his center.

"It's okay. It really is. I'm fine."

With a deep sigh, she smiled sweetly, feigning a sort of bravery for his sake; a gesture which warmed his blood and inflamed his urge to kiss her, to press his lips against hers and  _show_  her how sorry he was. Cupping one hand on each of her cheeks, Sandor ran his thumb gently over her cheekbone and down towards the fullness of her lips, the lips he was intent on kissing. Seemingly understanding his gesture, Sandor saw as a desire matching his flooded her eyes and her lips parted slightly, her breath coming stifled in her chest. Sandor lingered for a moment until Sansa gave the slightest of nods, moving her head slowly up and down, urging him on. Entranced, Sandor moved his head towards her, tilting slightly and moving his thumbs from her lips as he felt the flush of heat from her face warm his hands.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but perhaps we should eat a bit of something. Our travel has been long and hard and I can scarcely imagine how hungry Lady Sansa must be."

Engrossed by Sansa and somehow entirely forgetting the Septon was meandering about, Sandor turned his head over his shoulder and saw Septon Meribald holding a bundle of bread, salted pork, and cheese along with a flagon of spiced ale.

Letting his head hang in frustration, Sandor let out a groan and chuckled quietly before lifting himself to his feet and extending his hand out to Sansa. As she placed her slender hand in his, Sandor pulled her to her feet and led her to where the Septon had cleared an area for them to eat.

Resting up against the trunk of a tree, Sandor sat across from the Septon, watching as the man avoided his stare, mindlessly arranging the food on a laid out piece of fabric. Sansa settled herself next to his side, wincing ever so softly as she lowered herself slowly to the ground. Trembling slightly as she struggled to maintain her balance, Sansa leaned forward as Septon Meribald extended his arm to hand her a chunk of bread and cheese.

They ate in a silence brought on by exhaustion, wordless until Septon Meribald began to speak, clearly uncomfortable at the silence, his words infused with the audible sounds of his chewing.

"I imagine we are a day away from Dyre Den, which works in our favor. If we can cross the Bay of Crabs by night, we should be able to disguise your identities."

In a sweeping motion, the Septon pointed at finger at both Sandor and Sansa before passing Sandor the flagon of spiced ale and beginning again.

"With her painted in Tully red and blue, and you with your…umm…hmm…scars, we had best make certain our passage to Gulltown is done by the darkness of night. I know a man in Dyre Den…what was his name?"

Sandor took a long pull of the ale, feeling his irritation growing with each passing second of the man's rambling. Undaunted, the Septon tugged lightly on his beard, mumbling softly to himself.

"Gods above, what is his name? Oh yes! Heavens, how could I have forgotten! Robert Stoneway. A bit shifty, he is a smuggler of sorts. But he has done well for himself ferrying the weary across the bay to Gulltown and I trust him well enough to believe he wouldn't do us any harm."

Half listening to the man, Sandor turned his attention to Sansa, who had lowered herself to the ground, cradling her head in her hands and with heavy eyes was swiftly drifting to sleep. Sandor pushed himself up and retreated to his rouncey, pulling off a bedroll and unrolling on the ground next to Sansa. Gently, Sandor slid one arm under her shoulders and the other under her legs, lifting her from the ground. With her eyes fluttering open, Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head heavily against his shoulder.

Slowly Sandor lowered her to the bedroll, placing her softly on the ground and pulling his cloak from off his shoulders and covering her with it. With a sleepy sigh, she pulled his cloak tight around her body and within a few moments had succumb to her fatigue and drifted off to sleep, her breaths coming deep and steady.

It wasn't until Sandor lowered himself to the ground, leaning back against the tree once more and taking another deep pull of the ale that he realized the Septon had ceased his talking and was staring at Sandor, a slight smile playing about his lips.

"You seem to have quite an affection for her."

Sandor said nothing in reply, but instead hung his head, dodging the man's gaze which had come to quietly ponder him in something between admiration and hesitance.

"The Elder Brother informed me that you wish to stay behind in Braavos. It seems a ponderous thing to me. Why would a man in love do such a thing?"

As he took another pull from the flagon, Sandor finally met the Septon's stare, crossing his arms about his chest and trying to read the man's face through the veil of darkness between them.

"You are a presumptuous man, aren't you?"

The Septon shrugged his shoulders and bobbed his head from right to left.

"Some might say so. I fancy myself a mere observer, commenting on what I see. And what I see between you and Lady Sansa is quite remarkable. When you are together, it is as if nothing exists in the world, save the two of you. The rest of us are just shadows, a whisper in the winds."

Whether it was the ale or the way the Septon's words had resonated within him, Sandor's head was spinning, leaving him dazed and dizzy. When Sansa was around, it certainly felt as if they were the only two people in the world. Even in King's Landing he had felt that way, but had dismissed it; she was often alone in the Red Keep and he was often the one sent to guard her or retrieve her for one of Joffrey's sadistic whims so it was easy to feel as if it was just the two of them. Yet even now, the disconnect Sandor typically felt towards everyone was non-existent when it came to Sansa.

Between the Elder Brother and now Septon Meribald, his conversations seemed to consistently circle back to Sansa which then took the leap to love. Exhausted and unwilling to repeat an exchange similar to the one he had had with the Elder Brother, Sandor simply nodded his head and mumbled an 'aye' before lowering himself to the ground, laying on his back with his head cradled in his hands and staring up at the dusting of stars scattered about the sky.

Sandor watched as clouds passed over the stars, blotting them from his vision, as he listened to the soft sighing sounds that would every once in awhile escape Sansa's lips. He wondered of what she was dreaming that elicited such sweet sighs; perhaps she was in the body of a wolf once more or perhaps she was in the company of some beautiful knight. Although it crossed his mind in a fleeting thought, Sandor dare not let himself linger on the idea that she could be dreaming of him. Instead he yielded to his fatigue as his eyelids became heavier, opening and closing slower with each passing moment, until he drifted into sleep.

Not a second after he had shut his eyes, or so it seemed, Sandor felt a gentle prodding at his side, a steady pushing against his ribs that roused him from sleep. Reluctantly, Sandor opened his eyes and found the sun had begun to rise, casting dim shadows about the trees, and Septon Meribald standing over him, pushing the toes of his foot insistently at Sandor's side. Swatting away the man's foot, Sandor propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes adjusting slowly to the light.

"Alright. Stop that, I'm up."

Across from him sat Sansa with his cloak still wrapped about her shoulders, brushing out her hair with her fingers and scrunching up her face as she pulled through the knots. Sandor chuckled to himself at the sight of her, insistently working her fingers through her hair, bedecked in his cloak which eagerly swallowed her up.  _A direwolf by night, running wild through the woods. A lady by day, tending to her hair._

A smile crept about Sansa's face as she shifted her eyes sleepily to him, clearly having received little rest from the night before, but cheerful nonetheless.

"You're awake. Septon Meribald was afraid you had died in your sleep."

Laughing, her eyes flickered with sarcasm as she swept her stare towards Septon Meribald who still stood over Sandor, arms crossed sternly about his chest.

"We had best be on our way if we wish to reach Dyre Den by nightfall. I still feel it would be for the best if we crossed the Bay of Crabs by night to offer some disguise."

With a deep sigh, Sandor lifted himself to his feet, running his hands over his legs, brushing off chunks of dirt and leaves stuck in the wool of his breeches.

"Aye. I know, I know. Her beautiful red hair and blue eyes and my ugly face. I get it. Come on, Little Bird. I promise our pace will be slower today."

A slight blush flooded Sansa's cheeks as she abruptly stopped her fingers midway down the tumbling waves of her hair. Extending his hands to her, Sandor pulled Sansa to her feet, her knees buckling slightly as she stood. Sandor lifted her to her saddle and unbound her horse from the tree, handing the reins to her before swinging himself onto his own saddle.

True to his word, their pace was slower as Sandor led them at a canter towards the rising sun. Nonetheless, he could tell that riding was painful for Sansa; despite her best efforts to guise her whimpering with smiles and laughter at Septon Meribald's stories, Sandor could see the discomfort buried deep in her eyes, tears threatening to spill forth at any moment.

Helpless, there was little Sandor could do for her and he knew the Septon was right; their passage across the bay had best be done by night lest a passing vessel spot them. Still, the sight of her in such obvious agony elicited his own sort of aching; the yearning to ease away her pain and put an end to the tears welling up in her eyes.

As the sun rose high in the sky, the day grew unseasonably warm, bathing them in perpetual heat which was only periodically interrupted by gusts of wind. Adding to Sandor's own discomfort was Septon Meribald's incessant talking. The man had regaled him and Sansa with a catalogue of stories from his life; his impoverished upbringing in the Riverlands, his insatiable lust for maidens and the subsequent repentance which led him to a life of Godliness, his fondness for dogs, his distant connection to some long-forgotten river lord dead for hundreds of years.

By the time the man began yammering about the sure-fire way to tell a finch apart from a sparrow, Sandor felt he had reached his limit, ready to knock the man from his horse and sew his mouth shut. As he turned around, Sandor spotted Sansa, smiling sweetly and nodding her head, every now and then interjecting when she could with a steady circuit of responses, rotating from 'how delightful,' to 'that is so very interesting,' and ending with 'hmm, is that so?'

As the Septon continued on with his stories, Sansa kept up the rotation of her responses, her courtesies unwavering despite the obvious pain of her saddle sores. The sight of her obliging the man in such tedious conversation lightened Sandor's mood, bringing a subtle smile to his face as he turned his gaze back ahead of him.  _Always such a perfect lady._

By the time the sun hovered behind them, the Septon's stories came less frequently with long intervals of silence punctuating his chatting until finally he dozed off to sleep in the saddle, snoring softly as he bobbed back and forth with the movement of his horse.

Sandor slowed his pace until he came up along Sansa, his horse's pace matching her mare's. With an exhausted sigh, she turned her head towards him, giving him a soft smile and lifting her eyes to meet his. Sandor turned his gaze to the horizon and leaned slightly towards her, pointing towards the sky.

"You see that bird over there?"

Sansa squinted her eyes, seeking out the object at which he was pointing, furrowing her brow in concentration.

"I think so. Why?"

"Well, you see, I've been sitting here watching it. I was trying to decide if it's a finch or a sparrow. For the life of me I can't figure it out and I thought you might be able to help me."

Sandor turned towards her, the seriousness melting away from his face and giving way to a sweeping grin.

Rolling her eyes, Sansa gave him a playful, chiding smile before swatting at his arm.

"Be nice. He is a sweet man and he means well. He just has lots of stories to tell is all."

Leaning towards her once more and lightly jabbing her with his elbow, Sandor stifled a laugh as he summoned the best impersonation of her that he could.

"Hmm, is that so? How delightful! That's so very interesting."

Feigning offense, Sansa let her jaw drop open before tossing her head back in a cheerful laugh. Sandor watched her in wonderment; it had been so long since he heard Sansa laugh like that, whole heartedly and with the joy emanating from her. Startled, the Septon woke with a jolt and rubbed his eyes before turning towards Sansa and Sandor, groggily stumbling over his words.

"What…what…where are we?"

Sansa brought a hand up to cover her mouth, smothering the giggles as they erupted forth from her lips while Sandor cocked his head to the side, meeting the Septon's sleepy stare.

"I imagine we are a few hours ride from Dyre Den." Sandor rotated slightly in the saddle, evaluating the sun as it retreated behind them. "We should reach the bay right about at sunset."

To Sandor's chagrin, he had grossly miscalculated their arrival to Dyre Den and they approached the small fishing village long after the sun melted into the horizon behind them, bleeding its colors into the sky in hues of pink and violet.

For Sansa's sake, Sandor had let their pace slow a bit since they had made good time the day before. However, despite being such a large man, the Septon apparently possessed a bladder the size of an apricot and took advantage of their rambling pace to relieve himself at least once an hour.

Pulling slightly on the reins, Sandor slowed his horse to a stop and wheeled around towards Sansa and Septon Meribald, lifting the hood of his cloak up and around his head.

"The Septon speaks truly, Little Bird. Beautiful red-headed women with Tully blue eyes aren't exactly running rampant in the Seven Kingdoms, which makes you quite recognizable. It'd be best if you hid your hair and pulled up your hood too."

Flustered and blushing, Sansa darted her eyes about timidly before doing as she was bid, apparently once again taken aback that he had attested to her beauty. Sandor watched as she tucked her hair underneath her cloak and pulled the hood up around her face.  _She has no idea, not a clue, how gorgeous she is._

Still mounted on his rouncey, Sandor trotted to Septon Meribald's side as they headed towards the town.

"Sansa and I will hang back and try to remain as inconspicuous as possible. I will leave it up to you to do the talking. Do you know where to find this friend of yours? Robert Stoneway, you said his name was."

"Yes, yes! You and Lady Sansa let me do the talking, to be sure. Robert should be roaming about near the docks I would imagine."

Sandor winced as the man bellowed out his response, his voice echoing off of nearby cottages and permeating through the air such that half the village undoubtedly heard each and every word. True enough, the man meant well, but his fondness for talking, loudly at that, had begun to grate on Sandor's patience.

As they made their way through the village, interweaving between tiny stone cottages, Sandor was relieved to see that Dyre Den was seemingly a town of ghosts; each cottage window was tightly shuttered and the door sealed shut, the inhabitants tucked away for the evening, only periodically peaking through the cracks of a shutter to spy a look as they passed.

Much like the rest of the village, the town center was desolate; the smith shop doors barred with heavy wooden planks inlaid with iron, the market stands empty save a few pieces of rotten fruit and vegetables, even the Sept seemed abandoned, the passing of time reducing it to a decrepit eyesore at best.

The lifelessness of the village and town center which were all but deserted left Sandor ill at ease with a growing sense of foreboding swelling within him. As he shifted his gaze to Sansa and the Septon, Sandor found that they seemingly mimicked his uneasiness, each anxiously eyeing the darkness surrounding them and clutching tightly to the reins of their horses.

From the corner of his eye, Sandor spotted the faint flickering of lights softly cast about the waters of the bay which extended in front of them and alongside the dilapidated dock that extended out into the water.

Despite the darkness, he could make out the shifting shadows of men tying up small vessels, deftly and swiftly securing knots whilst others hurriedly unloaded bundles, casks, and trunks of goods with resounding thuds as they dropped the items to the dock.

As they neared the men, Sandor leaned in his saddle towards Sansa, keeping his eyes fixed on the men and his voice hardly above a whisper.

"Listen to me, girl. Whatever happens, you don't leave my side."

Wide-eyed, Sansa turned her head towards him, a mixture of fear and uncertainty besieging her eyes, her breath catching as her voice came tremulous from her lips.

"I wasn't planning on it."

Stopping several yards from the dock, Septon Meribald slowly lowered himself from his horse and methodically began towards the men, who were undeterred by the Septon's approach and continued about their work anchoring and unloading.

Stopping alongside Sansa's mare, Sandor took the reins from her and pulled their horses to a stop before hesitantly climbing off his rouncey and pacing around to Sansa's side.

Sandor watched as the Septon took a few more uneasy steps towards the men, extending his arms out in front of him in an amicable gesture and calling out to them as unassumingly as possible.

"Good evening! I am terribly sorry to interrupt, but I wish to speak with your captain."

At once, all the men, six in total, ceased their tasks at hand, some dropping goods to the ground and others looping the anchoring ropes around their hands and holding it taut before looking up towards the Septon.

Instantaneously, Sandor felt a tightening in his stomach, his instincts sorely cognizant of some impending danger and the urge to flee with Sansa bubbling up within him. A tall man with a set of cruel, black eyes, a weathered face and sinewy limbs stepped forward with a cagey smile creasing his gaunt face.

"Looking for the Captain, eh? Well, you're looking at him."

From behind the captain, a few of the other men chuckled darkly in unison, a cacophony of raspy laughs which did little to set Sandor at ease. The men who were not laughing sat silently evaluating the Septon, searching out his form for weapons or perhaps anything of value, before shifting their seedy stares in Sansa and Sandor's direction.

Taking slow, reluctant steps forward, the Septon came to stand in front of the captain, bowing slightly, not realizing courtesies would be lost on the sort of men that had come to gather around the weathered seaman.

"So very nice to make your acquaintance. My name is Meribald. I am a Septon of the Faith and I have come to seek passage across the bay to Gulltown. Perchance we could discuss the possibility that you would be so kind to ferry us across?"

With two swift steps, the captain was directly in front of the frightened Septon, his hand clutching and twisting the front of Septon Meribald's robe, pulling the Septon closer to him with a violent pull. The captain spat his words quite literally, spittle flying from his mouth and spattering the Septon's face before turning his heated gaze towards Sansa and Sandor.

"Us? Who the fuck is ' _us_ '? I assume these cloaked creatures of the night behind you make up the 'us'?'"

From beneath his cloak, Sandor clutched the pommel of his sword, his fingers wrapping tightly around the steel and his eyes sizing up each of the men, silently ranking which he would have to cut through first.

"Y-y-yes. Heavens me, I should have been more clear. We require passage for the three of us. We have coin as well."

With a quick shove, the captain released his hold on the Septon, knocking the man to the ground which elicited a roar of laughter from the other men.

"Might be we can let you across, but first,  _first_  I want to meet your friends. Seeing as how you so rudely failed to introduce us, I imagine I will take charge of these introductions."

As the Septon struggled feebly to his feet, the captain took slow, sauntering steps towards where Sandor was standing next to Sansa, whistling a sea shanty and tottering with drunkenness as he came. Sandor could smell the sickening stench of wine and sweat and salt on the captain as the man came to stand in front of him and began slurring his words as he shouted them over his shoulder at his men.

"This man here is the largest man I've seen in a long time. What do you think, boys?"

Sandor saw as a rotund, squat man stalked towards the captain, patting his fat belly as he came. When the man approached, Sandor saw that he was bald and had a mouth half full of rotten teeth.

"Only a few men in the Seven Kingdoms are that large, Cap'n. He ain't quite as large as the Mountain, but perhaps near the size of his brother, the Hound, wouldn't you say?"

Nodding his head deliberately, the captain took a step closer to Sandor, lowering his head in an effort to peer underneath the hood of Sandor's cloak.

"Aye, I would. I have this rule, you see. I want to look upon the faces of those I ferry across. These days a man will slit your throat from ear to ear and take the coin right out of your pockets, if you're not careful. Tell me your name, large man."

Unwavering, Sandor kept his head down, thankful for the guise of darkness that enveloped him, and felt as his hand squeezed tighter around his sword, internally begging the man to make a move so he could cut through him and be done with it.

For many moments, the captain stared icily at Sandor, his eyes narrow slits piercing through the night. Stumbling backwards a few paces, the man staggered into Sansa's mare which neighed softly in complaint. Snorting out a laugh, the captain shifted his stare up to Sansa, whose cloak was visibly rising and falling as she took frantic breaths.

"No matter, it's not you I'm interested in anyhow, but rather this sweet little thing right next to you."

Sandor felt his blood run boiling hot through his body as he heard a whimpering gasp escape Sansa's lips as the captain placed a wind-worn hand heavily on her leg. Panicked, Septon Meribald stumbled over his own feet as he took hurried steps towards Sansa.

"We wish you no harm! We are just weary travelers, seeking passage across the bay. We have coin to pay you!"

Pulling his hand away from Sansa's leg, the captain spun around and doubled over, howling out laughter which the other men eagerly joined in on. Circling around the Septon, the captain tossed his head back and shouted into the night.

"Grey Tom, is it coin that we need?"

A man seated at the dock abruptly pushed himself to his feet, his face half covered in grey scale and one arm ending in a stump.

"No Cap'n. We've got mountains o' coin. Might be we are richer than the bloody Lannisters."

The captain kicked up dirt as he took sweeping steps towards Sandor and cocked his head towards Sansa, slathering his lips with spit as he licked them.

"Aye, we don't want your coin. Women. That's what we want. Seems where we're rich in coin, we're poor in women. I bet you got this one nice and wet between the legs. Many thanks in advance."

With frightened breaths, Sansa wriggled away from the captain as the man once again ran a hand up her leg.

"What's the matter, darling? Never been fucked before, is that it? Well, I promise to be gentle."

In a blur of rage, Sandor saw as his hand flew from underneath his cloak and wrapped easily around the man's slender neck. Undaunted as the captain's men came running towards him, Sandor squeezed hard around as the man choked for air, emitting gurgling sounds and clawing futilely at Sandor's hand. Holding the man steady by his neck, Sandor swung his other arm behind him before letting his fist meet the captain's face.

"Enough! What in Seven Hells is going on out here? I leave you all for mere moments and you're already finding trouble."

Sandor released his hold on the captain, letting him slump to the ground, gasping for air and spitting out blood and bits of teeth to the dirt in front of him. In a frenzy, a grey-haired, middle aged man had emerged from one of the anchored vessels, his face colored in red and in stark contrast with the white of his closely trimmed beard.

A silence had descended over the other men as they slunk away, resuming their tasks or busying themselves with new ones. With deliberate, furious paces, the grey-haired man came to stand over the captain who was groaning, still on hands and knees and spitting up blood.

"What in the Gods' names happened here? Get to your feet, sailor, and get back to work before I cut your belly open and let the crabs feast on your entrails."

The captain stumbled to his feet, clutching at his jaw and walked in swerving steps back towards the dock while the grey-haired man watched, a scowl set firmly about his face before turning towards Sandor.

Before the man could say anything, Septon Meribald stepped forward, seemingly appearing from the shadows.

"Robert Stoneway. I met you in the riverlands, long ago. I am the traveling Septon. I make my circuit from Maidenpool around the riverlands."

The Septon's voice flickered with doubt, clearly uncertain whether or not the man would recognize him. At once, Robert's furrowed brow smoothed over to a blank expression which then slowly gave way to recognition.

"Meribald. Yes, of course I remember."

Sighing his relief, Septon Meribald stepped forward, clapping Robert on the back before giving a nervous laugh.

"We are seeking passage across the bay, to Gulltown. I had hoped to find you down at the docks. For a moment there, that prospect was looking terribly grim."

Shaking his head, Robert huffed out a bitter laugh before sweeping his stare over the men working at the docks behind him, narrowing his eyes as he evaluated each of them in turn.

"My apologies. These men are a motley bunch. I've lost too many good men to the seas. I'm afraid all I'm left with are robbers and rapers to fill my ranks."

"You are the captain then, not that other man?"

"Aye, I am the captain of these vessels. Lank is the other man's name. Bloody bastard is itching to take my title for himself. For two turns of the moon, I've had to sleep with one eye open lest the fool slit my throat in the night. Perhaps your large friend here knocked some sense into the bumbling idiot!"

Robert spat a clump of phlegm to the ground in the direction of Lank who was glaring darkly as they walked towards a small cog boat at the dock.

"For the right price, I can arrange for your passage. These boats are fast and the winds are in our favor, but the horses will be stabled here. If you mean to leave this night, that will cost double. Consider that the price for a friend."

Turning his head slightly over his shoulder, Septon Meribald locked eyes with Sandor, searching his face for disapproval at the arrangement. While he was none too pleased at their welcome to Dyre Den and he certainly did not trust Robert, it was clear that there was no other option for crossing the bay. Reluctantly, Sandor gave a terse nod.

With that, Septon Meribald extended his hand to Robert, sealing the arrangement with a hand shake.

"Yes, the horses shall be stabled here. We have a deal then. You will be paid handsomely when we reach the other side."

Through the shade of night, they crossed the bay to Gulltown with a chilly wind lashing about the small trade cog as it cut through the water.

The moon above was obscured by a curtain of clouds which passed in front, darkening the night to pitch. With her hood still up around her face, Sansa sat close to Sandor, her shoulder pressed up against his arm and looking off towards the horizon with a thousand-league away stare.

Even Septon Meribald remained quiet, succumbing to exhaustion and dozing off with his head hung and his snores coming softly. From under the hood of his cloak, Sandor eyed Robert carefully, and followed as best he could the direction in which they were heading. It would be all to easy for the man to use the moonless sky to his advantage and subtly shift their path towards some unknown location. While the man had intervened in Dyre Den, stepping in as the situation had begun to escalate, Sandor still considered him with wary reservation. A man is the company he keeps. And this man kept foul company.

He knew not when or how, but at some point in the night Sandor had drifted into a dreamless sleep; perhaps lulled by the methodical cutting of the waves against the cog or the gentle snoring of Septon Meribald. When he awoke, the sun was peaking over the eastern horizon where the Bay of Crabs opened up into the narrow sea and in front of them was the shadow of Gulltown.

With one arm draped over her, Sansa was curled up next to him, her body pulled tightly into the nook underneath his arm and her face nuzzled in his chest. Strands of her hair pulled free from underneath her hood and were rustling with the gentle breeze that was pushing them towards shore.

As Sandor spotted her hair, he lifted his eyes to Robert who eyed the loose strands before meeting Sandor's gaze shaking his head.

"She's a pretty one. Seems to be fond of you. You had best thank the Seven above that I stepped in when I did or surely my men would have descended upon her like a pack of wolves."

With a grunt Sandor narrowed his eyes at Robert.

"I would have liked to see them try. You'd be short a fucking crew. I ought to put my sword in your belly and send you back across the bay to your 'men' in bloody pieces."

With a hearty laugh, Robert tilted his hat towards Sandor.

"For a man who has worked so very hard at masking his identity, your foul temper betrays you. So does your size. I'd be careful throwing around threats like that, big man."

Sandor contemplated Robert and considered spanning the distance between them to shove the man overboard. Instead he bit his tongue and remained where he was, but not before lifting his cloak from off his hip and loosening his sword from the scabbard with a slight jiggle, all while holding Robert's steadfast stare.

As the sun hovered above the horizon, they sailed into Gulltown from the south, approaching from the tiny inlet that was dotted with docks. Although unmoving, Sansa was awake, silently watching the larger ships as they passed by and remaining tucked underneath Sandor's arm. As they came in flush with a small dock, Robert jumped from the cog to the dock and pulled the vessel in before securing the boat with a thick rope.

Sandor rose to his feet, lifting Sansa with him and pulling her close to his chest before whispering in her ear.

"Listen to me and listen to me well. Your hair needs to be hidden. Keep your head down and stay by my side. If anyone talks to you, you ignore them. If anyone looks at you, you look away. Is that understood?"

What Sandor did not mention, what he felt compelled to leave out, was that their time in Gulltown, however brief, would be the most dangerous part of their journey. The city was arguably the biggest port in Westeros and uncomfortably close to King's Landing, besides. Despite his omission, Sansa seemed to understand all the same.

With a stoic nod, she tucked the loose strands of her hair back underneath her cloak and pulled her hood further over her head. With his hand in hers, Sandor pulled Sansa from the cog and onto the dock. Septon Meribald gathered the saddle bag contents and shoved a small bundle of coins into Robert's open hand.

"Robert Stoneway, you have done us tremendous kindness. It will not be forgotten. I trust you will find this payment suitable for your troubles."

Eagerly, Robert opened the bundle and peered inside. Shaking his head, he flashed an angry glare at the Septon.

"You old fool! Don't butter me up with your blundering courtesies! We agreed on double for passage by night."

Once again, Sandor pushed away his cloak and wrapped his hand tightly around the pommel of the sword, a gesture which promised the man pain should he press the matter any further.

With an immediate understanding and fury gleaming in his eyes, Robert hurriedly untied his boat from the dock before jumping into the cog and pushing away into the open water, staring daggers through Sandor as the wind carried him away.

As the morning swelled with light, they made their way past the docks containing cogs and other smaller vessels towards the main harbor where free city ships congregated amongst their Westerosi cousins. A flurry of activity bustled about them; wine traders from Dorne loading casks on to docks, fisherman hauling in their catch, the scent of exotic spices drifting through the air, the cacophony of a dozen foreign tongues meeting their ears from all around.

Wide-eyed, Sansa stayed fast by Sandor's side, now profoundly aware of how easily her or Sandor could be recognized and clearly uncomfortable as they pushed through crowds of fishermen, traders, sailors, and captains. A few steps ahead of them, Septon Meribald stopped and turned towards Sandor, keeping his voice down the best he could.

"I've spotted a number of ships with purple hulls, Braavosi ships. I will find us passage on one of these ships and come for you when I am finished. Gods be good, it will not take long."

With a nod, the Septon wandered off towards the cluster of ships lined in rows about the harbor. Once Septon Meribald disappeared amongst the crowd, Sandor pulled Sansa off to the side towards the shade of a nearby oak tree.

As Sandor leaned up against the tree, he watched as people passed by, going about their business and hardly noticing him or Sansa. As Sandor sat watching, he felt a pair of eyes on him from a distance.  _Seven bloody hells. I'm being watched._ Ignoring the sensation the best he could, Sandor waited for it to pass, for whom ever was staring through him to move on and go about their business.

For long moments Sandor waited until finally, from some strange place within him, he felt compelled to look. When he did, Sandor was relieved to find he did not recognize the man yet this did little to quell the unease he felt as the man kept his stare steadfast on him. Sandor could not place the man's age, although he assumed he was well beyond five-and-sixty. With straight white hair that reached past his shoulder and a matching beard that fell to the middle of his belly, the old man watched with piercing green eyes, standing completely still as the harbor bustled with activity around him. A shout from his left roused Sandor's concentration as he snapped his head to the left to find a man berating a younger boy who had dropped a cask of wine, spilling its contents across the ground. When Sandor turned his head back towards the old man, he was gone, seemingly vanished into thin air.

Sandor suddenly felt chilly as the wind picked up about the harbor. Silently, he searched out the old man until a nagging sense of despair began forming within him; small at first but churning until it manifested as an overwhelming presence. For many moments, Sandor tried to place the feeling, seeking out its genesis but to no avail.

Somehow Sansa seemed to sense his unrest or perhaps it was her own unrest that made her speak. As she began, her voice was solemn and her gaze was placed in front of her, mindlessly watching the harbor astir in front of her.

"When we left the Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother told you not to forget what he told you. What did he tell you?"

Sandor was taken aback; he had hardly thought that Sansa picked up on his subtle exchange with the Elder Brother yet her crystalline perceptions left him as equally stunned as he was agitated. Through a clenched jaw, Sandor hissed out a response, unwilling to meet her stare as she turned towards him.

"Nothing that you should be concerned with."

Undaunted and unwilling to let go of it, Sansa met his irritation with defiance, something she was becoming more accustomed to as of late.

"If it does not concern me then why did he look at me as he said it?"

 _You could tell her, Dog. You could her all. How badly you wish she could be yours, how much you want to protect her and be what is right for her. And how, like the dog you are, you plan to stay in Braavos, tail between the legs and licking some imagined wound._ He wanted to tell her and he would have, but the way she looked at him stymied the words as they formed on his lips; a look which intimated that somehow and somewhere within her she already knew and was wishing it wasn't true, clinging to whatever reassurance she could. Would if he could give her that reassurance, but instead the words that came were harsh and bitter and he felt powerless to stop them as they poured out of lungs in a thick rasp.

"Believe it or not, my Lady, not everything has to do with you."

With wounded eyes and her mouth agape, she turned away from him, scooting herself as far away as she dared and crossed her arms about her chest, biting her lip.

Sandor looked around him; first the sky above, then the ground below, and finally the waters of the bay as they lapped against the docks. Suddenly, he became aware of the origin of his growing disquiet.  _For how long, I don't know, but this is the last time I shall set foot in Westeros._

As he glanced over at Sansa, her face was obscured by the hood of her cloak, yet he saw the heaving rise and fall of her chest that suggested silent tears were falling from her eyes. Feeling sick to his stomach, Sandor thought he might retch. It pained him in ways he could not have imagined to glimpse, even for a fleeting moment, the distress, the fear, and the ache he saw in Sansa as she asked him what the Elder Brother had said to him, seeming to have the answer already.

Lost in tormented thoughts, Sandor did not see as the Septon approached, beckoning him and Sansa to follow him towards the ship that would presumably take them to Braavos, sealing their fates as he and Sansa silently followed.

He had been called a Dog. He had been called a Hound. He had been called a Monster. Never in his life did Sandor feel more like a dog, a hound, a monster than he did in this moment with Sansa by his side, wordlessly and somberly heading towards the ship with a steady stream of tears falling down her cheeks, over the curve of her lips and pattering the ground where she walked.

* * *

 _'You look prettier with your mouth closed, Sansa.'_ Cersei had told her that once. Since then, Sansa had made certain to keep her mouth closed, no matter how horrified or confused or petrified she was.

 _'Believe it or not, my Lady, not everything has to do with you.'_ She couldn't help it as her jaw dropped open as Sandor growled out those words, the 'my Lady' punctuated with sardonic inflection. What more, her eyes had begun to well up with tears; angry tears, embarrassed tears. Frustrated with herself, more tears fell which gave way to embarrassment which produced even more tears. On the cycle went as Septon Meribald led them towards a ship with a hull painted a deep color of purple.

With deep breaths, Sansa tried her best to quell the tears.  _Quit crying. Stop crying. You aren't a child anymore, Sansa Stark. Quit crying._

She knew not why she had begun to cry. It wasn't as if Sandor had never snapped at her before or spat hateful words at her. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that had come to ravage her body or the grumbling of her stomach as it protested the lack of food. Regardless, she felt ashamed for crying, her limbs ached from riding, her hair was a knotted mess, and her dress was stained with dirt and sweat. And then there was Sandor, brooding and swathed in irritation with his mood darkening. Desperately, she wanted to sleep, to drift off into a slumber and let it all melt away into a dream.

In broken common tongue, the Braavosi captain welcomed her aboard his ship,  _Jade Titan_ , and ushered her on deck. He was a short man, falling a few inches shorter than Sansa, with a weathered face, a warm smile, and thick, black curls peppered with grey framing his face.

"Beautiful lady, very tired, no? Need sleep, yes?" Gratuitously, the captain smiled and nodded his head, his accent lush and completely foreign to Sansa. Septon Meribald stepped forward and rested his large hand softly on her shoulder.

"My Lady, our journey has been hard and has taken its toll on you. Rest now and get some sleep."

With a shy smile, Sansa gently nodded her head before glancing towards Sandor. With a clenched jaw and the burned side of his mouth twitching, he refused to meet her eyes and instead stared off towards the narrow sea.

The Braavosi led her down a narrow set of stairs below deck and towards the captain's cabin, his cabin.

"Beautiful lady, have my cabin for journey. Sleep now, yes?"

As he led her into his cabin, the Braavosi crossed the room in a few quick strides, tidying up as he went, picking up stray pieces of clothes and tossing pillows back onto the bed. With an embarrassed laugh, the captain turned back towards her.

"Very sorry, Lady of Westeros. I not very…uhmm…hmm."

Sansa watched as he struggled to find the word in the common tongue, scratching his head and scrunching up his face before a sweeping smile cracked across his wind chapped lips.

"I make big mess."

Sansa let out a giggle. The man was weathered on the outside, his skin like boiled leather, but possessed a gentle heart beneath it all. The captain rummaged through a small armoire before pulling out a long woolen dress, plain, but somehow beautiful in the way the skirt pleated and the way the sleeves had been embellished with embroidering.

The captain draped the dress over the back of a chair in the corner of the room and paced towards the door.

"When Lady of Westeros wake from long sleep, can change in this dress. Not good match for lady's beauty, no, but very warm, yes. Much water for bath and food, yes, when you wake. Sleep now, Lady of Westeros."

And sleep she did, but not the deep sleep, dreamless and dark, that she had hoped for. Rather, her sleep was fitful as she tossed and turned, sleeping for an hour or so at a time before being roused again. Finally, she drifted away into a sleep filled with strange visions. When she did awake, she knew not how long she had slept; perhaps an hour, maybe a day, possibly two days. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cabin, Sansa tried to move her legs, but found that as she did, the aching panged through her limbs worse than before. Little by little, she scooted her throbbing legs to the edge of the bed before slowly propping herself up and pushing the blankets from off her legs.

With arms extended in front of her, she felt her way through the darkness, stumbling here and there as she walked into pieces of furniture. When she reached the cabin door and pulled it open, she could see up the small set of stairs to darkness of night above deck.  _Is it night already? Or perhaps its closer to dawn._

Before she could ponder it much further, a voice came from down the corridor to her right, another voice flavored in a Braavosi accent but not nearly as broken as the captain's.

"My Lady, will you be wanting a bath? You must also be hungry as well."

Squinting her eyes to peer through the darkness, Sansa saw as a woman approached, a shadow moving towards her until the light of the moon above illuminated her. Wide of hips and her skin a dark olive, the woman stood placidly in front of her, a maternal presence that instantaneously set Sansa at ease.

"Yes, thank you. A bath and food would be most appreciated."

Sansa smiled sweetly as the woman brushed a knot of hair from off her face.

"My brother was right, you are quite beautiful."

Taking Sansa by the arm, the woman led her down the corridor to a tiny bath chamber, just big enough to house a small tub and stool.

"My brother is the captain of  _Jade Titan_. We come from a family with a long tradition of sea faring. This was my father's ship and his father's before him."

As the woman talked, she helped Sansa from her dress and eased her into the tub, the water fragrant with some exotic spice Sansa was unfamiliar with, floral yet deep and musky. Methodical and gently, the woman brushed through Sansa's hair, humming a song Sansa had never heard before, perhaps a Braavosi hymn or a sailor's song.

Suddenly remembering her courtesies and embarrassed she had even forgotten them in the first place, Sansa turned towards the woman.

"Forgive me, what is your name? You have been so kind to me."

With a warm smile, the woman patted Sansa's hand.

"Such a sweet child. My name is Mirriah. And your's, my Lady?"

Startled, Sansa hadn't considered what to tell the woman. Perhaps she had already said too much. Sandor had told her to not talk to anyone, but surely Mirriah meant her no harm.  _But then, how often have I thought that only to be grievously mistaken?_

With a cool politeness, Sansa settled back in the tub, letting the soreness escape from her limbs and dissolve in the water.

"Your brother calls me Lady of Westeros. He is a kind man."

Mirriah let the brush stop in her hands and eyed Sansa, but did not push any further and instead shrugged her shoulders before working through the last of the stubborn knots in Sansa's hair.

When Sansa emerged from the tub, her skin glowed, a radiance that seemed to emanate from within as she felt instantaneously better now that she had washed away the dirt and sweat from her body.

After slipping into the woolen dress the captain had laid out for her, Sansa ate a meal of salted pork, olives, and sharp cheese in silence, feeling as if the days traveling to Gulltown were a long past dream.

Since emerging from the captain's cabin, she had not seen Sandor or the Septon for that matter. Sansa ascended the narrow set of stairs and out onto the deck of the ship. Save a few crew members, the deck was deserted and blanketed in darkness that seemed to surround them. The sky above was clear, a smattering of stars twinkling brightly across the sky and a moon hung above, lovingly smiling down from above.

Sansa approached the side of the ship and looked to the black water below which met the darkness of the sky. As she searched the deck with her eyes, Sansa did not spot Sandor. Even if she had, she knew not what she might say to him. As of late, his demeanor endlessly oscillated between gentle warmth to silent brooding to icy aloofness, leaving her with nothing to do but ride out the ebb and flow of his fickle and wholly unpredictable moods. Once more, she was resigned to wait, wait for the sourness of his temper to pass, but something remained troubled within her. Since coming upon her in the Vale, Sandor had hardly left her side, even when she slept she had often woken next to him or tucked under his arm or with him hovering above her. Something between them had shifted, leaving her feeling listless and wrought.

"My lady, the night had grown cold. Why are you not below deck, in the warmth of your cabin?"

In the periphery of her vision, Septon Meribald had approached, standing next to her and gently resting his hands on the railing of the ship. Sansa let her stare linger over the waters which lapped at the sides of the ship with a sloshing sound.

"So it is night then. I didn't know how long I had slept. Where is Sandor?"

"Yes, Lady Sansa. You slept through the day and half through the night. The captain says we will arrive in Braavos by midday tomorrow. As for Sandor, he was whisked away to sleep on a sea of wine. The man downed an entire flagon in a few gulps. Extraordinary, really."

Wordlessly, Sansa nodded her head, trying not to let her disappointment show as she turned her gaze towards the water once more.

"I've never seen the sea before. Not like this."

Septon Meribald shifted, now leaning against the rail of the ship, gazing dreamily at the stars above.

"I remember the first time I was aboard a ship. Long years ago, but the memory remains. It was a night much like this; the seas tranquil, the darkness of the water meeting the darkness of the sky which was lit with stars. I imagined I was flying through the sky, soaring amongst the heavens above."

Peaking her head over the side of the ship, Sansa let the horizon melt away, envisioning the sky and water as one, stitched together until they were uniform.

"It does feel a bit like flying."

A solemn smile pulled at her lips, tugging them up ever so slightly at the corners.

"And if you could fly, Lady Sansa, where would your wings take you?"

The question caught her off guard, but she knew the answer and without skipping a beat, lifted her eyes to the heavens.

"Up there. Somewhere up there."

"You would not fly home, my Lady? To Winterfell?"

Sansa considered his words and searched her heart.

"This world is full of killing, death, sadness. I thought life was supposed to be like the songs; dancing and love and honor. It seems I have nothing left to hold on to."

Sansa folded her hands in front of her as unbidden tears began to sting her eyes.  _Not again. No more crying. I should be out of tears by now._

Reassuringly, Septon Meribald inched towards Sansa and placed a hand on her shoulder, but said nothing. Patiently, he waited until finally Sansa spoke, her voice strained and somber and her words coming jagged and disjointed from her lips.

"I did not sleep well. I hoped that I would. The problem…well…you see it's just that for the past four nights or so, Sandor has been with me while I've slept…I just feel…I don't know…safe, I suppose, when he's there. It's ridiculous really. You must think me mad."

With an uncomfortable and nervous laugh, Sansa shook her head, trying to desperately to clear her mind and erase her troubled thoughts, letting them float into the empty expanse through which they were sailing. For many moments, Septon Meribald remained quiet, yet his mind was running, Sansa could tell by the way his brow furrowed and he lifted his eyes to stars above.

"Not long ago you said that your fate is your own. Are you familiar with the story of our souls, my Lady?"

Sansa rummaged through the recesses of her mind, seeking it out, but did not find any remembrance there. She shook her head.

"No, I don't believe I have."

Septon Meribald smiled softly and nodded his head.

"You will not find this story in  _The Seven-Pointed Star_ or any other text of the Faith. I have sought out its origins, but find that I come up empty handed at every turn. It seems the story of our souls seeks us out. It is a whisper from the heavens to those who need its message.

The Seven above are but seven faces of one God; a prism of colors, each a different hue, but reflected from the same crystal. The Seven wove the fabric of the Universe and unfolded it into an infinite expanse. The breadth of their work was impressive to behold, but the Gods found it was much too plain; devoid of light, a lonely darkness even they agreed would not do.

And so they breathed fire into many handfuls of crystals and scattered them about the sky, illuminating the heavens above with stars. The beauty of their work was impressive to behold, but the Gods found the stars much too static; devoid of dancing, a silent stillness even they agreed would not do.

And so they plucked the two most beautiful crystals from the sky and hung them lovingly in the expanse above our world as the sun and the moon and set them endlessly dancing about one another in a perpetual waltz. The cleverness of their work was impressive to behold, but the Gods found the sun and the moon each too fickle in its own right; the moon waxing to a serene fullness before waning to a shadow of itself and the sun kissing the earth with the splendid warmth of summer before retracting its affection with the icy gusts of winter. Once more, even the Gods agreed this just would not do.

By this time the Gods were exasperated, wrought with frustration. And so they convened one last time, determined to craft the most wondrous of creations; a being that would make the stars weep tears of fire and the sun and the moon cease their endless dancing to glimpse the exquisiteness of the Gods' creation.

The Gods worked tirelessly, forming and reshaping their being, seeking perfection and each God contributing a small piece of themselves to the final creation. However, something was still missing.

For long nights, the Gods deliberated until finally coming to a realization that their creation should be a reflection of themselves. The pairing of the Gods is no coincidence; the Father and the Mother, the Smith and the Crone, the Warrior and the Maiden. Each possesses what the other lacks, two matching pieces of the same mold; one cannot exist without the other, for should they separate they are destroyed.

And so it came to be that our souls were born. In that moment, the duality of the Gods, light and dark, masculine and feminine, was united in our souls and thus creating an image of the Gods within each of us. Truly, our souls were breathtaking to behold and the stars wept fiery rivers through the heavens and the sun and the moon ceased their infinite waltz, stopping to gaze upon the most wondrous of creations the Universe could hope to know.

Now, I know what you must be thinking; there are seven Gods, not six."

Sansa nodded her head, entranced by the story.

"This story does not end here, I am afraid. The seventh God, the God which all the others feared, did not have his say, his contribution seemingly ignored. He is the God of destruction and death and the task at hand was a task of creation, the other Gods tried to explain. But they could do little and less to quell his mighty rage which was threatening to tear apart the very fabric of the Universe.

In his fury, the Stranger was determined to have his say and make his contribution. The Stranger is the God of destruction and destroy he did. In his ballistic rage, the Stranger ripped the souls apart into two separate pieces; light separated from dark, masculine separated from feminine.

Before the Stranger could damage their precious creations any further, the other Gods desperately worked together to save the remnants of the souls. They had to work fast. Just as the Father cannot exist without the Mother, nor the Warrior without the Maiden, the Smith without the Crone, the two halves of the souls would not survive long without their counterpart.

The Warrior staved off the Stranger as best he could, sword against sword. The Mother protectively cradled the torn souls while the Smith swiftly crafted our human bodies from flesh, bone, and blood before placing one torn half of the soul into one body. When the Smith's work was done, the Father placed our bodies on earth, safely away from the Stranger's wrath.

The heavens wept at the thought of our souls torn in half and scattered about the earth, separated from the missing counterpart, which to them was an unimaginable punishment. To ease the pain, the Crone gifted our now human forms with her wisdom, an unwavering intuition which instantaneously recognizes the counterpart of our soul when our human forms come together and sent heavenly guides to wander the earth, helping the souls find one another.

The Maiden knew our human bodies would only survive so long. The horrible thought that our human forms might perish before we find our other half was too much to bear. Her gift to us was this: should our human bodies die before we find our match, we shall be reborn again, living as many human lives as needed until we find our missing piece.

And so we wander this earth, each of us possessing one half of a whole soul. We ache for our other half and are compelled on an endless journey to seek out the individual who possesses that other half. The Gods look upon us in our journey, crafting our fates such that we are driven closer to whoever possesses our match. We cannot exist without our counterpart, not truly. And so we wander, through however many lifetimes it takes, until we are complete. Only then can we return to the heavens, united again as one soul, the way we were meant to be.

Only the heavens above will ever know why you and Sandor Clegane came colliding together once again. Perhaps your fate is not truly just your own, but rather is his fate as well. Perhaps you've both lived too many lifetimes without one another. Or perhaps in my old age I have become a romantic fool and this story is for love-sick oafs, such as myself. You say you have nothing left to hold on to, but if I was you, my Lady, I would hold on like hell to the man whose fate quite literally collided with yours not so long ago."

With that, Septon Meribald squeezed her hand and kissed her softly on the cheek before retreating off towards his cabin below deck, leaving Sansa dumbfounded and feeling as though the breath had been stolen from her lungs.

For many moments, she sat in a tranquil silence, gazing at the stars above her and pondering the story of our souls as Septon Meribald had relayed it to her.

Ever since she was a child, Sansa had a way of getting swept up in stories, the words seemingly whisking her away to a fantasy where knights were always honorable, maidens were always fair and virtuous, and love came easily, free of conflict. However, as the story of our souls settled deep within her mind, it managed to shake her to her core. The story was beautiful, to be sure, but the heaviness of its implications left Sansa stunned and reeling.

She was spellbound by the bittersweet idea of matching souls, pieces of the same mold separated and left to spend a lifetime or maybe many lifetimes in search of one another.  _'Only the heavens above will ever know why you and Sandor Clegane came colliding together once again. Perhaps your fate is not truly just your own, but rather is his fate as well.'_

Sansa understood on an intrinsic and profound level what Septon Meribald was suggesting, but found that she was deeply confounded by the suggestion.  _How can a man like Sandor Clegane be my match, my missing piece?_

She worked through the memories emerging on the precipice of her waking mind, summoned from the deep subconscious recesses of her heart. When she had first encountered Sandor upon his arrival in Winterfell, she was terrified by his brutal reputation and repulsed by his gruesome scars. However, she had been a child then; a child utterly consumed by the romanticized visions of gallant, handsome knights and the idea of one day being Joffrey's queen. The memories of her own ignorance and superficiality made her shudder.

She had suffered unimaginable heartache and had been shown the bitter brutality of the world. She had changed, but something had changed in him too. The violent storm of fury that had raged within Sandor's being had somehow calmed, leaving behind a brooding stillness.  _How can a man, so different from me, possess my matching piece, and mine his?_

_'Each possesses what the other lacks, two matching pieces of the same mold; one cannot exist without the other…'_

As the words echoed through her mind, Sansa began to understand.  _He is harsh, where I am gentle. He is strong, when I am weak. He teaches me resilience and I teach him compassion. He is dark, I am light. He is wholly masculine, I am purely feminine. We possess what the other lacks. We wouldn't fit, two pieces of the same mold, if we were exactly alike._

And then it came to her, screaming from the back of her mind and forming on her lips, spoken aloud and making her legs feel like globs of unworked dough, buckling at the knees.

"Look not with your eyes lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be."

Sansa brought a trembling hand to meet her mouth as the words exited her lips, brought to life by her breaths. With tears in her eyes, she looked up the skies, to the stars above, and to the beings which were seemingly watching her, guiding her, leading her towards her fate.

True to the Braavosi captain's word, they approached Braavos as the sun rode to its peak in the sky. As they passed beneath the Titan of Braavos, Sansa felt her breath catch in her chest as she spied murder holes carved out beneath the massive stone structure. It seemed they reached Braavos at perhaps the busiest time of day, for a line of ships extended ahead and behind them, all being ushered into Chequy Port for inspections.

For an hour they waited for the Sealord's customs officers to board their ship and grant them passage to the purple harbor. When the officers finally climbed aboard, they made a brief exchange with the captain in Braavosi before laughing merrily and clapping the man on the back. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.  _They seem to know him._ She had been terrified that the customs officers would somehow recognize her or Sandor and drag them back to King's Landing

Stumbling through his words in the common tongue, the captain explained that they would head towards the Purple Harbor where local ships were moored. As they approached Purple Harbor, Sansa understood where its name came from; in long rows ships with purple hulls dotted the harbor.

Sansa watched as seagulls circled over head, squawking loudly and diving down every now and then to collect bits of bread or fish that had been dropped to the ground. From all around, she heard the Braavos tongue, foreign words being shouted across ships, captains shouting orders to crew members. As Sansa watched the flurry of activity, a shadow had come to envelope her and as she flashed her eyes to the side, she saw Sandor standing next to her, still brooding and looking as if he had hardly slept.

Saying nothing to her, he eyed the harbor with disdain gleaming in his eyes before muttering curses under his breath. Suddenly, she felt invisible to him, a ghostly specter that he hadn't seen standing next to him. However, he did seem to see her. Pulling her by the arm, Sandor led her towards the wooden plank that declined from the ship to the dock below. The Braavosi captain stood at the top, smiling warmly as the Septon Meribald shook his hand and thanked him. With a gentle push at the small of her back, Sandor nudged her towards the plank, past the captain.

Turning around at once, Sansa pushed past Sandor who was behind her and headed back towards the captain. The man had shown her a great deal of kindness and she was not content to leave without thanking him. When Sansa came to stand in front of the captain she took his hands in hers and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you for everything. You were so very kind."

A bright smile flooded the man's face as he nodded his head.

"Lady of Westeros, beautiful and sweet. Farewell, my Lady."

Over the man's voice, Sansa heard Sandor snickering from the bottom of the plank as he stepped onto the dock, snorting out a mocking laugh before shaking his head. When Sansa reached the dock, Septon Meribald pointed in the direction of a domed structure placed on top of a hill. The glazed tiles that covered the dome shone like gold in the sun.

"That is the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea. Septon Harmon is a dear friend of mine."

With his arms cross about his chest, Sandor narrowed his eyes at Septon Meribald, before growling out his words acridly.

"Aye, a dear friend you say? Like Robert Stoneway, the man I almost had to butcher in half? That sort of friend?"

Turning red, Septon Meribald clenched his fists and snapped back.

"Septon Harmon is a man of the Gods. We will be in a Sept for heaven's sake. You would do well to remember that, Clegane. I will arrange our stay. You two stay behind and meet me at the Sept two hours hence."

With that Septon Meribald spun on his heel and made his way through the harbor and towards the domed Sept on the hill, his robe swaying about his legs and his pace quickened and resolute.

Sansa lifted her eyes to Sandor who was evaluating the crowd in front of them through narrowed eyes before seemingly feeling her stare and shifting his gaze down to her. After meeting his stare, Sansa let her eyes flee away, suddenly afraid at what he might say. Or worse, that he might say nothing at all and go on treating her as if she were an apparition.

He must have sensed her dilemma, something about the way she let her eyes fall away and her body tense, because she saw as his clenched jaw softened and his eyes flickered with something akin to guilt before she felt his arm gently loop into hers.

Sansa felt her heart beat faster and her stomach fill with butterflies at his touch, relieved that whatever dark mood had taken him had now passed. As they walked, arm in arm, through the harbor, Sansa was enchanted by the people she saw meandering about, a melting pot of the free city customs and cultures.

In Winterfell, the free cities and their inhabitants were something from the stories that Old Nan used to tell; far off lands thousands of leagues away with people who were entirely different than the Westerosi.

With two feet planted in Braavos, Sansa felt she was living in one of those stories. She watched as Bravos dueled in the streets, garbed in silken pants and shirts woven in the brightest colors she had ever seen. In Westeros, northerners wore drab colors of greys and blacks and greens. She never knew such vibrant colors even existed, much less existed as fabrics that could be made into clothing.

Sansa spotted several ebony-skinned men swathed in capes of bright feathers which swayed as they walked, making them appear as birds that might take flight at any moment.

As if the sights weren't enough, the smells that invaded her nose were like nothing she had experienced before. The marriage of cinnamon, clove, saffron, mulberry, and lemongrass wafted through the air, emanating from wooden casks unloaded on the dock from a dozen ships returning from all over the known world.

Making their way from the harbor, merchants had begun to line the streets and narrow alley ways, selling select items from off the ships. The market stalls were filled to the brim with vintage wines from the Summer Isles, Dorne, and Asshai. Fishermen pushed around carts with the catch of the day; mussels, crabs, cod, and scallops overflowed from the carts, the meaty flesh glistening in the sun. Other stalls contained three dozen or more spices from around Essos, some Sansa had never even heard of before.

The aqueducts that ran above them spilled forth fresh water at public fountains. At the fountains, children ran beneath the water, splashing it about their faces and giggling until they were breathless. Sansa smiled to herself, remembering far away memories of what it was like to be that carefree, to be a child.

As they approached an intersection of two streets, the crowd in front of them was halted, merchants, sailors, and locals alike looking in the same direction towards something Sansa could not yet see. Suddenly the crowd in front of her and Sandor began to part, each person stepping three paces back such that a path began to open.

The men standing in front of her stepped away, allowing Sansa to see what the crowd was so seemingly engrossed by. When Sansa looked up, she saw a woman making her way down the clearing that was made at her presence.

The woman was breathtaking, the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen. The delicate features of her face were emphasized tastefully with a staining of rouge on her cheeks and lips, her eyes outlined in kohl and framed by thick, darkened eyelashes. Her dress was like nothing Sansa had ever seen, its extravagance making Cersei Lannister's gowns seem like roughspun robes in comparison. The fabric was exquisite silk slashed with black satin stripes gathered about the woman's waist, accentuating her curves and adding to her feminine mystique. With tumbling waves, the woman's raven black hair swept to her waste, pulled back from her face on one side with a sapphire and ruby brooch embellished with golden feathers.

As the woman sauntered down the path that had been made for her, men went to their knees, begging for her favor in half a dozen foreign tongues. Graciously, the woman offered a gloved hand to each in turn, allowing them to kiss her hand.

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Sandor shift, leaning in towards her as Sansa remained utterly entranced.

"She's a courtesan. They are treated like royalty in Braavos and the other Free Cities."

In Winterfell, Sansa had once overheard Theon Greyjoy boasting to Robb and Jon that he would one day bring a courtesan to his bed. Later at her needlework lesson, Sansa had asked Septa Mordane what a courtesan was, thinking that it was surely just a woman of the court, perhaps even the court at King's Landing. Scowling, Septa Mordane had scolded her about asking after such things and curtly told Sansa that courtesans were prostitutes dressed up like noble women.  _'If you put a sow in a silk gown, rouge on its lips, and curls in its hair, it is still just a pig underneath. The same goes for courtesans. They may dress like high-born ladies, but they offer the same services that a common prostitute does.'_ The woman coming towards her certainly did not look like a prostitute and looked every bit like a royal should. However, Sansa knew what courtesans were, but was confounded by the amount of respect and adoration the crowd was paying this woman.

"Royalty? But they sell their bodies. How can they be viewed as royalty?"

As Sansa scrunched her face up, Sandor let out a chuckle, the rasping of his laugh filling her with a familiar warmth.

"No, Little Bird. Whores sell their bodies. Courtesans are gifted in the art of pleasure."

Sansa watched as the women kissed a boy, no more than four-and-ten, on the cheek and laughed merrily as the boy blushed an impossible shade of red.

"How can somebody be gifted in something like that?"

Sandor turned his body towards her, searching her face with an amused smile.

"In Winterfell, your septa taught you how to be a lady, did she not? She taught you your courtesies, taught you songs, things like that?"

Flustered, Sansa shook her head, failing to see the connection between her lessons as a lady and the courtesan woman's lessons at pleasure.

"Yes, but that's different." Her words left her lips in a huff, almost whining as she crossed her arms about her chest.

Clearly entertained by her bafflement, Sandor laughed out loud this time, his low rasping chuckle giving way to a hearty laugh which elicited a stubborn smile to crease her lips.

"Courtesans are just as diligent in their lessons as you were, Little Bird. The only difference is the subject matter. They learn not only how to please a man, but how to seduce, how to entice."

Biting her bottom lip, she stared up at the courtesan who was soaking up the attention from the crowd which was fawning over her.

"How to please a man…" Sansa's voice was soft and questioning as she pondered the thought.  _There can't be much to it. Look beautiful, praise him for being gallant and brave and smart, give him sons, kiss him sweetly._

Somehow reaching her mind, Sandor tilted his head slightly and gave her a sarcastically mocking glance with a mischievous smile playing about his lips.

"Surely, your septa or mother told you what happens on your wedding night, told you what your husband's rights will be."

Sansa felt the blood rush to her face as a wave of embarrassment crept over her.

"Oh.  _That._ They said that it would be painful, but as a dutiful wife I would have to endure."

Shaking his head, Sandor laughed once more, his eyes flickering with something between amusement and passion.

"Pain, duty, endure. They make it sound as if you're going off to battle. It can be pleasurable for a woman too. That is, if a man cares enough to make it pleasurable and of course, if he knows what he's doing."

At once Sansa could feel the heat emanating from her face and spreading down her chest, positively certain she was blushing a deeper shade of red than the boy who took a kiss from the courtesan. The urge to ask Sandor what he meant conflicted with the urge to hide herself under a rock; the curiosity battled embarrassment within her, back and forth they went.

Distracted by the battle playing out within her, Sansa suddenly realized the courtesan was standing in front of her. Wide-eyed, Sansa stepped to the side, stumbling into Sandor who reached out with a heavy hand and steadied her by the shoulder as she bowed her head, her voice a whisper.

"Pardon me, my Lady."

The courtesan stopped in front of Sansa, taking a gloved hand and placing it under Sansa's chin, lifting her head up to meet the woman's gaze.

"Such natural beauty. Your skin is like butter, flawless. What I wouldn't give for fire to kiss my hair like it has yours."

Sansa could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Wearing the old woolen dress the captain had given her and with her hair tumbling about her body in unkempt waves, she felt entirely inadequate in front of the woman who was truly exquisite.

Flustered, Sansa let her eyes flicker away as the woman lowered her hand from underneath Sansa's chin.

Remembering her courtesies, Sansa bowed her head politely as she tugged at her dress.

"Thank you. You are so kind to say, but I'm not…"

Laughing sweetly, her voice like a song, the courtesan placed both hands on Sansa's hips, squeezing lightly as her words flowed like honey from her lips, flavored with an unfamiliar accent.

"You  _are_ , sweetling, I assure you. What a sweet disposition to match a lovely body which matches such a gorgeous face." Suddenly the courtesan lifted her stare over Sansa's shoulder to Sandor who was behind her.

"You are a lucky man, my Lord, to bring such beauty to your bed. Dare I admit, I am rather envious of you."

Before Sandor could respond, the woman kissed Sansa on the cheek, a soft, lingering kiss, before she strode off down the alley way, no longer stopping to offer her favor or kisses to the crowd. Stunned, Sansa brought her hand to her cheek, her skin burning like fire under her touch.

She felt as Sandor leaned into her, his chest flush against her back, before lowering his voice to a lusty rasp.

"I think she likes you."

Turning over her shoulder, Sansa gasped out a breathy reply in confusion and disbelief.

"What?...But…but I am woman. And besides, she thought that we were…that we…that we were well…together."

Sandor shrugged his shoulders and gave her a half smile before sweeping his eyes down the alley way towards the retreating courtesan.

"Indeed, you are a woman. And so is she. And some women enjoy the company of other women."

With that, he turned his stare back towards her, his eyes glazed with anticipation at her response.  _I'm burning alive in my own skin at this conversation while he is clearly and utterly amused._

Sandor looped his arm in hers before leading them on again, across the intersecting streets and towards the Sept on the hill.

Sansa huffed in frustration as the internal battle between embarrassment and curiosity raged within her. Suddenly a flush of boldness overcame her and her curiosity swelled within her.

"She thought you and I…well…that we…"

Shaking his head, Sandor let out a hearty chuckle before finishing her sentence.

"That I take you into my bed at night. What about it?"

"Assuming she might enjoy the company of other women sometimes, why would she approach me if she thought that you are the one who takes me into your bed?"

Sansa sighed deeply; it took all she had to form her sentence without stumbling over her words and blushing uncontrollably. Sandor remained quiet, pondering her question before shrugging his shoulders with a coy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Some men like to see women enjoying the company of other women."

Turning his head, Sandor let his eyes fall to her, searching her face. Sansa let her jaw drop open, not caring if she looked prettier with her mouth closed and felt as her eyes widened. The thought seemed perverse to her; the marriage bed was meant to be shared between two people, not three. Sansa smiled to herself. She could scarcely imagine what Septa Mordane would have to say if she knew Sansa was asking after such things. Suddenly, another flush of curiosity bubbled up from within and burst forth from her lips as another question.

"Do you like…I mean…nevermind."

This time she could not feign confidence, but instead decided that her curiosity had gotten the best of her and tried desperately to recant her words, stopping them midstream as they spilled from her lips.  _You are a lady. Ladies do not ask questions like this._

Unwilling to let her off so easily, Sandor shook his head.

"Out with it, Little Bird."

Yielding, Sansa sighed deeply. True enough, the questions she sought after were not befitting of the Lady Stark of Winterfell. But she wasn't in Winterfell and Septa Mordane was not here to scold her about such things.

"You said some men enjoy seeing two women together."

"Aye, I did. What of it?"

"Well, do you enjoy seeing two women together?"

Sansa lowered her voice, which trembled slightly. As she once again felt a blush kissing her face, Sansa couldn't bear to meet Sandor's eyes. She was afraid he would laugh at her, or scold her, or tell her she was being a stupid Little Bird. Instead, he did none of those things. When Sansa brought her eyes up to his face, she found that it was devoid of the playful smile that had been there and instead his eyes were colored with a strange somberness and now it was him that could not bear to look at her.

"No, Little Bird. One woman would be more than enough for me."

They remained quiet for the rest of their journey towards the Sept, their path zig-zagging as they head towards their destination in a step-wise manner, heading in the opposite direction before having to double back. When they finally approached the Sept, Sandor stopped abruptly mid step, his face becoming pale as milk and his mouth twitching slightly. With a steadfast stare, Sandor locked his gaze in front of him. When Sansa lifted her eyes in the direction Sandor was looking, she saw a man in the distance, staring intently at Sandor. The man reminded her of Maester Luwin, except with long white hair, a flowing beard, and eyes the greenest she had ever seen.

"Who is that? Do you know him?"

Through a clenched jaw, Sandor narrowed his eyes, his breaths rasping from his lungs in irritated spurts.

"I saw him in Gulltown. The fucker is following me. Or you. Or us. I don't bloody know, but I like it not."

"Here they are! Good Heavens above, such splendid timing!"

In unison, Sansa and Sandor lifted their eyes towards Septon Meribald as he descended the marble steps of the Sept, his arms flailing in the air as they often did when he was overcome with excitement.

Sandor paced towards him and Sansa followed after, but not before peering back in the direction of the old man. When Sansa looked, the man was gone, dissolving into the horizon that was framed by the descending sun. Confounded, she squinted her eyes, entirely certain that the man could not have slipped away so quickly.

"Lady Sansa, I would like to introduce to you my dear friend, Septon Harmon. Harmon, this is the Lady Sansa I spoke of earlier."

Gleaming with something between pride and joy, Septon Meribald extended his hand towards Sansa as his friend, Septon Harmon, bowed politely at the waist. The man looked as though he could pass as Septon Meribald's brother as both men shared similar features; faces lined with age and a hard life, steel grey hair and kind eyes.

"A true pleasure, my Lady. Septon Meribald has sung your praises in front of Gods and men alike."

With that, Septon Harmon turned towards Sandor and once again bowed at the waist, fully unaware that such courtesy was counterproductive with Sandor.

"And you must be Sandor Clegane."

Interjecting with a bitter laugh, Sandor crossed his arms about his chest and stared off towards the direction of where the old man had been standing not moments earlier.

"Don't tell me. Septon Meribald cursed my existence in front of Gods and men alike."

With a hearty laugh and wag of the finger, Septon Harmon turned towards his friend.

"He's witty! I do rather enjoy witty. Come now! Be welcome, friends. Septon Meribald has told me much and more of your journey to get here. Let us share a meal together and share our stories!"

Charmed by Septon Harmon's pleasant kindness, Sansa followed along with Septon Meribald, but Sandor did not and instead stood where he was, still scrutinizing the place where the old man had stood. Stopping and retreating back down the stairs, Sansa approached Sandor, gently touching one of his arms, which were still tightly folded across his chest.

"Aren't you coming?"

Brusquely, Sandor pulled away from her, keeping his glare steadily where it was.

"No. You go on. I will be back later."

As he paced off towards the direction of where the old man had been without giving her so much as a glance, Sansa felt her heart sink, settling sourly in her stomach and leaving her feeling as if she was riding the waves of his changing moods once more, waiting for a storm to pass.

With a sigh, she ascended the steps of the Sept and pushed through the enormous wooden doors. When she entered, her breath escaped her lungs as a gasp. The Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing had been breathtaking, but this was beyond words. Beneath the dome of the Sept was seven columns, in front of each a raised platform that held the likeliness of each of the Seven Gods. In the center of the open area, a lavish marble fountain spilled forth water from a large seven-sided crystal held up by a column set with moonstones. The ceiling of the dome was laid in a rainbow of mosaic tiles depicting each of the Gods. The floor of the Sept was made up of dark marble with a large in-laid golden star, each of the seven points emanating from the fountain and leading to the platforms of the Gods.

Beyond each of the seven columns, the walls of the Sept were encircled by open balconies which looked out onto the narrow sea and the city of Braavos below. Septon Harmon led them down a corridor which opened behind the platform of the Father and into what seemed to be the great hall of the Sept. Retaining all the loveliness of the rest of the Sept, the great hall was adorned in marble floors and a mosaic ceiling depicting the history of Braavos; from the Moonsingers leading refugees away from Valyria to the Titan of Braavos gallantly defending the city against Aegon's dragons.

A long glass table supported by ornate engraved wood sat at the center of the room and reflected a rainbow of colors about the walls as the retreating sun peered through the open balcony that extended the far side of the room. Septon Harmon bid them to sit as a Braavosi septa brought in a tray of candied plums, rye and brown bread, a variety of cheeses imported from Pentos, roasted duckling, and brined olives along with a flagon of sweet apricot wine.

Sansa ate in silence as Septon Harmon and Septon Meribald exchanged stories, laughing merrily until both were gasping for breaths. As Sansa watched the two men, she thought of her dearest friend, Jeyne Pool, who had been with her in King's Landing and in Winterfell before that. Sansa remembered laughing like that with Jeyne; breathless and stomach aching as they shared preposterous stories and silly secrets, swearing to each other that they would never tell.

As the laughter of the Septons faded into background noise, Sansa wondered what had become of Jeyne and what she might say if she knew Sansa had escaped Westeros with Sandor, the man who had smashed Jeyne's door down with a war hammer the day the Stark household was purged from King's Landing.

For many hours, the Septons swapped stories, each seeking to outdo one another and seeing how hard they could make the other laugh. Through those hours, Sansa remained silent, perhaps now and then smiling when Septon Meribald looked over at her, but her mind would quickly spin off, wondering where Sandor had went.

Long after the sun set and the moon had come to ride high in the sky, Septon Harmon and Septon Meribald escorted Sansa to a small bed chamber. As Septon Harmon bid her good evening, Septon Meribald stayed behind, a look of concern settling about the creases of his face.

"My Lady, you were rather quiet this evening. Is something the matter? I know Braavos is unknown to you, but you are safe within these walls. The worst of the journey is behind us now."

Letting her head hang, Sansa smiled bittersweetly, somehow feeling guilty for causing Septon Meribald to worry. Taking his hands in hers, Sansa lifted her eyes and feigned a look of exhaustion.

"Everything is fine. I'm just tired is all. Nothing a good night's rest won't fix."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Septon Meribald nodded his head.

"Good to hear, my Lady. Sleep well and I hope your dreams are sweet and fair."

As Sansa entered her bed chamber, she found she was not tired, not in the least. Rather, her mind was racing, stubbornly refusing to settle. Although her chamber was small, she was pleased to find it boasted a balcony which was hidden behind thick burgundy drapes. Pushing the drapes aside, Sansa stepped out onto the balcony as a gentle breeze enveloped her. The city below was segmented by canals which ran through like veins, all terminating in one central point beneath what appeared a temple.  _The heart of the city._

The top of the building was covered with black tiles and the walls boasted no windows. As Sansa looked around, all the other buildings contained at least one balcony and a handful of windows. The front side of the building contained a massive wooden door, almost as large as the doors of the Sept, set with weirwood and ebony, black on white. Sansa had never seen anything like it and pondered what it was. Her musing was roused by a knock at her door. Before she could lift herself from the balcony, the door opened and Sandor stumbled in, muttering curses under his breath.

Regaining his balance, Sandor walked towards her, one foot placed deliberately in front of the other. Sansa remained on the balcony, crossing her arms about her chest as she suddenly felt the chill of the wind. Something about him was beginning to scare her, perhaps the way he was walking towards her or maybe the look on his face. As he stood in front of her, she let her eyes fall away. She could smell the wine on him and knew he had found his way to a tavern in the city. Without looking at him, Sansa felt the question that burned in her mind tumble from her lips.

"Where did you go?"

Shaking his head slowly and snorting a dark laugh, Sandor took two shaky steps towards her, but said nothing. Flustered, Sansa back-peddled, trying to explain away the abruptness of her question and soften the pleading that reverberated through it.

"It's just that you left so suddenly. I was only wondering, but it makes no matter."

Still he said nothing and instead only stared at her, intently and drunkenly. Memories of the Battle of the Blackwater flashed through her mind and she understood immediately, feeling as if she had been ushered back in time when he stumbled into her room by the light of wildfire, threatening her life and forcing a song. Somehow this was different, yet similar. He was drunk and she was uneasy, much like that night, yet he said nothing and she found she did not fear him like she did back then.

As he stood there, his leering melted away to the same somber stare she had seen in him earlier and in the days before, an aching that seemed to consume him from within yet she did not know how to place it or even where it came from. The tension in his body seemed to flee as well and his features softened as his hands cupped her cheeks.

"Sansa." His voice was laced with yearning, his eyes considering her with desire.

 _He means to kiss me._ He had meant to kiss her the night before they reached Dyre Den. He had run his fingertips lightly over her cheeks before brushing his thumb over her lips, beckoning them to part before he moved his head towards hers. She had wanted him to kiss her, her desire as strong as his. However, Septon Meribald had interjected much to both her and Sandor's chagrin.

And while Sandor was still regarding her with the same affection now as he was then, he was also drunk, she knew.  _If he means to kiss me, he had better find the time when he is not swaying with drunkenness._

"I need to sleep, Sandor. And so do you."

In one swift motion, Sansa pulled away from him, ducking beneath his arm and pacing towards her bed, pulling back the covers and readjusting the pillows, busying herself with mindless tasks until he moved from where he stood.

As he walked past her, Sansa felt her gaze move up his form until her stare met his. Sandor's eyes flashed with a burning fury, astir with frustration, rejection, and rage all at once. When he left her room, she heard the door close behind her with a resounding thud, one which rattled the very walls of her chamber. Sansa crawled into her bed and pulled the covers up over her head as tears formed in her eyes, tears which lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

When she awoke, Sansa broke her fast with Septon Meribald and Septon Harmon. Sandor, she was told, had already broken his fast and had set off into the city offering no details except that he would return after night had fallen.

In an effort to disguise her disappointment, Sansa took a deep breath and turned towards Septon Harmon.

"Septon, the balcony of my bed chamber offers such a beautiful view of the city. I spotted a strange building last night and thought you might know what this building is. It had a very large door, ebony and weirwood, black interlaid on white, white on black. It looked to be a temple of some sort. Do you know this building?"

Chomping on a slice of honeyed brown bread with cheese, Septon Harmon coughed to clear his throat, morsels of food flying from his mouth.

"Oh yes. The House of Black and White. And right you are, it is a temple of the Many-Faced God."

Spying Sansa's furrowed brow, the Septon continued, his hands waving animatingly in the air.

"The Many-Faced God is worshipped by the Faceless men, a guild of assassins who believe that death is the sweetest gift of all. They give it freely as an offering to their God. You may have noticed the temple boasts no windows. It seems these followers are a secretive lot, preferring to remain in the shadows, to remain nameless, and…well…faceless for that matter."

With a sweeping of his hand, the Septon looked about the great hall in which they were seated, motioning towards the open balcony.

"I prefer the openness of the Sept. The goings-on here are clear for Gods and men alike to see."

For the rest of the day, Sansa wandered about the balconies that circumvented the outside of the Sept, watching as the city bustled below and feeling like a forgotten maiden trapped in a tower, condemned to look upon the others below but share no part in their activities. When the wind picked up and lashed about her legs, Sansa retreated back into the Sept and lit a candle at the feet of each of the Gods, even the Stranger, the God who looked over lost souls because she herself felt lost, listless, and wandering.

True to his word, Sandor did not return until well after nightfall. When she heard the knock at her door, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, sick at the thought he might come to her in a drunken haze like he did the night before.

Instead, he was entirely sober, brooding even, swathed in icy aloofness. He asked her if she was doing well and if she needed anything. With a 'yes' and a 'no' she answered his questions, waiting for something else, anything else, but it never came. Instead, he gave her a nod and left her room.

A week passed this way; solemn mornings breaking her fast with the Septon's who had both confessed that they were growing deeply concerned about her, days wandering about the Sept or the courtyard beyond, and nights where Sandor would come, asking the same two questions before leaving. Septon Harmon had tried to cheer her up by having his septa bring her two silken gowns, one a vibrant blue which complemented her complexion and eyes and another in silver which gave her a lunar glow. The dresses were gorgeous and felt marvelous against her skin yet did little to pierce through the melancholy that had come to consume her.

When she lay in bed at night, Sansa thought of the stories she heard of Lyanna Stark, her father's beloved sister. All her life she had heard the whispers around Winterfell, the story of how Prince Rhaeger had carried Lyanna off, his northern beauty, his one true love, so that they could live out their days together. Unwittingly, he had set Robert's Rebellion and the eventual downfall of the Targaryen dynasty in motion.  _All for his love of her. Even at the Tourney of Harrenhal he crowned Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty, passing over his own wife._

Sandor was certainly no Targaryen prince, but she imagined him all the same, carrying her off in the night, stealing her away so that they may hide from the world together. And they were together, her and Sandor, in this foreign city, so rich in culture and different from the life she had always known, yet Sansa felt they were separated by a thousand leagues or more. He was a world away from her and she knew not how to reach him. It felt as if a pane of glass separated them and was growing thicker by the day. Each time she tried to break through, she was left frustrated and distraught, but nonetheless she kept trying, futile as it was. Night after night, exasperated tears would fall from her eyes and once again Sansa would be whisked away to sleep by those tears which saturated her pillow and stained her cheeks.

After a week, she had had enough and resolved to try, one last time, to break through and reach him, wherever it was that he had slipped away to. She waited on her balcony, as she always did, listening for the knock. When it finally came, Sansa called him in, remaining on the balcony and looking off towards the House of Black and White which had somehow come to fascinate Sansa.

Like every night, Sandor asked the same two questions; 'Are you doing well?' and 'Do you need anything?' Just like the questions, her answers were always the same. However, as he turned to leave, Sansa turned from the balcony, the silken skirt of her dress whirling about her legs which felt as though they might melt from underneath her.

"The night Stannis tried to take King's Landing, you came for me. You could have left the city, but you came to me. Why?"

Sandor stopped in mid stride and although his back was turned, she saw as he dropped his head before turning around slowly to meet her hopeful stare.

"I was drunk and delirious, from wine and from battle. At the time, it seemed a good idea."

True enough, he had been drunk when he came to her that night yet by the way he stood before her now and they way he could no longer look her in the eye, she knew he wasn't telling her something.

Relenting, he shrugged his shoulders in resignation before shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Little Bird, I…"

Sansa interjected, involuntarily cutting off his words and filling the room with her own truth, hoping it would bring them closer.

"I regretted not leaving with you. So many times, in King's Landing and in the Eyrie, I wondered if I had been wise by staying behind."

As hard as she tried to shatter through the pane of glass between them, it seemed Sandor was working just as hard to maintain it. He lowered his voice, still unable to look at her.

"It was probably for the best that you didn't come with me."

Frustrated, Sansa bit her bottom lip before taking slow steps until she stood in front of him and forced his eyes to meet hers. When his eyes finally did settle onto hers, they were glazed with a strange anguish she could still not place.

"I kept the cloak. The white one, the one you left behind. I didn't know why I kept it, not then. But I know now. I felt safe with you. And I  _feel_ safe with you. I feel protected, cared for. So I kept the cloak."

Wordless, Sandor shook his head and for a fleeting moment Sansa thought she saw the anguish behind his eyes give way to joy, but no sooner did she spot this, it was gone. Like so many times before, he laughed bitterly, his voice a low growl from his lungs.

"Protected. Like all those times I protected you from Joffrey, from Boros and Meryn and all the other  _Sers_  who were ordered to beat you. They say I turned craven the night the Blackwater was alight with wildfire. Craven…the only time I've ever felt craven was watching as you whimpered, cried, and bled as they beat you while I stood by and did nothing. Bugger me. I sound like one of those pretty fucking knights from the songs you love so much."

Sansa felt her heart beat hard against her chest at his words, the way he somehow managed to lace them with cruelty before spitting them out at her. Her despair was overshadowed by a sudden flush of anger.

Remembering to wear her courtesies as armor, Sansa walked to the door, her head held up, refusing to sulk away as his temper flared. She regarded him with a cool stare as she opened the door.

"Thank you for checking on me. I appreciate your kindness."

In a few frenzied paces, Sandor reached the door, slamming it shut and grabbing her by the arms, pulling her into him.

"Don't do that. Not with me."

Sansa wriggled free from his grasp, taking two steps away from him as he took one step towards her. Suddenly, she felt as if she was plucked from Braavos and put right back in King's Landing, back when she wore her armor of courtesy and Sandor swathed himself in rage.

"Goodnight, Sandor."

With his mouth twitching and his eyes ablaze with a fury like she hadn't seen before, Sandor yanked the door open and left the room seething.

The next night she only half expected him to come. Her mother once told her that all men are like wolves; if their pride is wounded, they slink away, preferring to lick their wounds in private. If you try to approach and help, they are likely to snarl their teeth and snap at you. Sansa knew not whether Sandor's pride had been wounded, but for long hours she waited for him to come, to hear the knock at her door. And for long hours the knock did not come. As Sansa stared out over her balcony, she saw the large wooden doors of the House of Black and White open, a sliver of light coming from within. Sansa squinted her eyes, willing herself to see what was inside, but before she could see anything, the doors slammed shut.

Feeling restless, tired of waiting, and curious, Sansa dashed towards the door of her chamber and set off down the corridor to open area of the Sept. The Seven watched as Sansa pushed open the door of the Sept and set off into the night. As she reached the bottom of the Sept steps, she could barely see the House of Black and White; although it sat on top of a stony knoll, from the ground below her balcony she could only see two or three rows of the shiny black tiles that covered the roof of temple.

Undaunted and resolved to find it, Sansa cut through the marble courtyard that extended in front of the Sept and towards the general direction of the temple. The streets and alley ways of Braavos ran in diagonals, while others zig-zagged around hills, doubling back on themselves before running straight once more.

The House of Black and White couldn't have been more than a mile from the Sept, yet Sansa felt as though she had traveled two miles. Coming to a canal, Sansa decided to follow alongside it, remembering that the canals she spotted from her balcony all convened at the temple. T _he heart of the city._

The longer she followed the canal, the more she regretted the idea of setting off in the night. The stone buildings were becoming more dilapidated, the looks of the people she passed became more hostile and lingering. In the distance, a few blocks down, Sansa saw a building with light and laughter pouring from it. As she neared the building, Sansa heard music, the soft sound of a lute and a man singing a bawdy Westerosi tune.

Suddenly, a man burst through the door, stumbling and laughing as a woman clung to his side, her breasts exposed and bouncing as they tumbling into the side of the building.  _This is a brothel and that woman is a prostitute._

Feeling her stomach knot nervously, Sansa was desperate to find her way back to the Sept and was internally chiding herself at the stupidity of leaving in the first place. As she was turning to leave, a heavy silhouette obscured the light that had been pouring from the open door of the brothel. Sansa felt the breath coming jagged from her lungs as she began to tremble.

She didn't want to look. She wanted to walk away and pretend she never saw, but she couldn't, she wouldn't. Instead, she turned her stare to the door of the brothel and found Sandor standing there, eyes wide and jaw clenched tightly as he pulled free from a whore who was thanking him as he left.

She felt as though she took a punch to the gut, yet the pain she felt now was entirely different from the pain she had felt when Ser Meryn delivered a mailed fist to her stomach. Both had left her breathless, gasping for air that seemingly wouldn't fill her lungs. She turned away, taking quick, long strides back from where she came along the canal, but he was fast on her heels, calling after her.

"Sansa. Sansa, stop."

She refused to turn around, to let him see as tears spilled over her cheeks and her heart ripped to pieces in her chest.

"No. Please. Just leave me be."

She didn't know how or when, but her legs had decided she needed to flee, to leave as quickly as she could. So she ran along the canals, as fast as her burning legs would take her.

He was behind her, calling after her, demanding her to stop, but she didn't stop. She kept running, darting down alley ways, weaving her way towards some unknown place, a place that would allow her to hide away, to lick her wounds in solitude. Not the wounds of a damaged pride, but the wounds of a broken heart.

* * *

Sandor loathed running. He never needed to run. He could walk faster than most men ran, his legs carrying him farther in one stride than the scampering of a normal-sized man. Yet he ran after Sansa, gaining on her as she fled from him.

Since well before the Elder Brother found him on the Trident, Sandor had not been with a women. Consumed and distracted by his thoughts of Sansa, it hadn't occurred to him, the urge for another woman hadn't even been there. In King's Landing, he frequented the brothels, drowning himself in wine and seeking an empty release with whichever whore disguised her disgust at his face the best.

His time in Braavos had been largely spent alone, wandering the streets, little by little distancing himself from Sansa the best he could. He told himself it would be easier that way. Indeed, it would be easier in the long run, he knew, no matter how difficult it was in the present. He felt it impossible to stay away from her; like a moth to the flame, he wanted to bathe in her light, to stay by her side, to make her laugh, to show her the city. Deciding that he could not completely deny himself his Little Bird, Sandor made it a point to see Sansa each night, to make sure she was doing well and that she had everything she needed. Each and every night, he went to her and forced himself to pull away despite the confusion it was causing her.

Each and every morning, Septon Meribald chided him, telling him how much his absence had affected Sansa and how if he truly meant to stay behind in Braavos, he needed to tell her, to make her understand. Sandor knew the man spoke truly, he would need to tell Sansa, but the courage he built up to try was instantaneously destroyed when he would see her. His kept his interactions with her were brief lest he crumble and lose himself. As he continued to pull away, Sansa's light began to dim, her joy slowly extinguished by his absence. He felt like a monster, worse than a dog, craven and afraid. Like he had done in King's Landing, Sandor tried desperately to drown it all away with wine yet found it did little to ease the dull aching he felt.

And so, for the first time in a very long time, Sandor stumbled into a brothel, seeking his release, desperate for something to ease away the ache he felt. Like all the others, the whore had turned away from him, disgust gleaming in her eyes which was poorly guised by a feigned enjoyment. As he rode out his climax, Sandor felt the internal, nagging ache and tortuous emptiness fill him once more. Shaking his head, he pulled back on his breeches and tossed the whore a couple of coppers as she lay panting and sprawled across the bed.

Horribly timed, Sandor emerged from the brothel to find Sansa standing by the canal, her chest heaving with disbelieving breaths and her eyes filling with tears.

She ran from him, down narrow alleys, between the stone buildings, over bridges that connected the cluster of isles that made up Braavos. He knew not where she was going, but he kept with her until she stopped, suddenly aware that she had somehow managed to find her way back to the Sept.

Panting, Sandor took her by the arm and pulled her around to look at him. Refusing to meet his eyes and wiping away tears with the back of her hand, Sansa turned away from him once more.

"I shouldn't have left. Just let me go."

Frantically, Sandor caught her by the arm as she tried to make for the stairs leading up to the Sept door. She let out a squeal as she struggled feebly against his grasp, pushing him away with an elbow and pulling desperately to free herself.

"Sansa, stop it."

With a determination flashing in her eyes, Sansa turned towards him and shoved him away with as much force as she could, losing her balance and stumbling into him. As he caught her, he pulled her into him.

"Sansa…Littl-"

Pushing away from him, Sansa wriggled from his grasp, meeting his eyes with a disdainful glare.

"You always said you were a dog. Now I believe it."

Furious, Sandor caught her by the arm as she tried to run away from him, yanking her from the steps and back towards him.

"What the hell do you expect, girl?"

Narrowing her eyes at him and crossing her arms about her chest, she said nothing.

"Aye, I get it. You expect me to be  _your_  dog, just like I was Joffrey's and Cersei's before that. Is that the way of it? You want me to follow you around like some pup, scampering at your heels? Come into your bed at night when you're afraid and alone, offer you comfort, a shoulder to cry on until some bloody highborn lord decides he wants to marry you? And then what, Sansa? I wait outside your bedroom, like a dog thrown out, listening to your moans while he fucks you? That's what you want, isn't it?"

His voice was thick with fury, his tone mocking, and his hands curling into fists as he felt the anger pumping through his veins. As she stepped away from beneath the shadow he cast about her, Sandor saw the tears streaming down her face and heard a pained whimper exit her lips. Turning from him, she fled up the stairs of the Sept, choking out sobs as she went.

Watching as she pushed through the Sept doors, Sandor cursed himself under his breath, hating and loathing that he had caused all of this. He couldn't stand to see her cry, but found himself in a complete and utter frenzy at the thought that he had caused her tears.

Taking his steps two at a time, Sandor bounded into the Sept and found Sansa sitting beneath the statue of the Mother, her head resting in the palms of her hands and her soft cries echoing throughout the Sept. As Sandor approached, Sansa waved him away with one hand, the other still cradling her face.

Standing next to her, Sandor's shadow enveloped her, bathing her in a shade of darkness.

"Seven Hells, Sansa. Why do you think I was in the Vale the night I found you? It wasn't because I wanted to be some bloody sellsword. I was looking for you."

Lifting her head from her hands, she looked up at him with confusion through eyes wet with tears, sniffling quietly before speaking, her voice quivering.

"How did you know I was in the Vale, at the Eyrie?"

Wiping away the tears still lingering on her cheeks, Sansa pushed herself to her feet and stood in front of him, her stare beckoning him to continue.

"I didn't know. I had no fucking clue where you were, no more than anyone else. It didn't matter. I needed to look for you, needed to find you. So I left the Quiet Isle to search for you, the Little Bird that flew away.

When I was dying on the Trident, do you know whose name I was crying out, screaming so that they might hear? It was yours. You asked why I came to you the night that fucking Imp set the Blackwater ablaze with wildfire. Aye, I was drunk, delirious from battle and wine, but that wasn't why I came. It was you. I could have left the city without going back and I would have if you weren't there. I went back for the only thing that mattered, the only thing I've ever wanted to keep."

With her voice scarcely above a whisper, Sansa let her eyes fall to the floor.

"Me. You wanted to keep me?" With incredulous eyes, she searched his face, almost disbelieving all he had told her.

He knew he needed to tell her, to tell her  _everything_. That he wanted to keep her, he had always wanted to keep her, but also to keep her safe and to give her everything she deserved, but that he was afraid he couldn't, terrified he would just keep hurting her. And because of that he would need to let go, to give her a chance at the happiness she deserved and to find someone that could give her everything he couldn't.

Reeling and feeling as though he might retch, Sandor stepped towards her, taking her tiny hands into his.

"Aye, Little Bird. More than anything, I want to keep you, but I need to tell you something."

"There you both are! I have word from the Elder Brother. He sent a raven from Gulltown. He made the journey to Braavos last night. We are to meet him at the harbor straight away."

Septon Meribald's delighted voice echoed throughout the Sept as he approached hurriedly and out of breath. Sandor groaned at the man's seemingly impeccable timing which once again shattered the moment. With bouncing steps, Sansa spanned the distance between her and the Septon, who took Sansa's hands in his own when they came together.

"The Elder Brother says he has good news, but would not elaborate in the letter."

With a radiant smile flooding her face, Sansa turned towards Sandor, breathless.

"Sandor, we get to go back! The Elder Brother has good news!"

Before Sandor could respond, Sansa was whisked away by Septon Meribald, arm in arm and pondering what news the Elder Brother might have.

After a lengthy farewell between Septon Meribald and Septon Harmon, they set off for the harbor. Sandor slowed his steps, setting the pace as they walked through the streets, clinging to what little time he had left with her and thinking of the words he might say when they reached the harbor.

He had not expected the Elder Brother to send for them so soon; it had only been a week and a few days since they reached Braavos. Unless the Blackfish fell into Brienne's lap on the day after she set out, there was no possible way the Elder Brother was coming with news of Brynden Tully.  _Maybe the Maid of Tarth found herself a she-wolf, the little sister._ Sandor doubted Arya was in the Riverlands. The girl had seen firsthand how the Riverlands had been torn apart by war. Doubtless, she had had a belly-full and would have left.

Either way, if the news was good, it meant either the Blackfish or Arya were found and that was enough to add a bit of resolve to what Sandor would need to do once they reached the harbor. Sansa would be in good hands, she would be taken care of, and eventually she would find her happiness without him lurking about, making her cry and causing her pain.

The walk to the harbor was agonizing, each step bringing him closer to the hardest thing he would ever have to do. As the distance between the Sept and harbor melted away, Sandor felt his stomach knotting sourly and his breath quickening in time with the beating of his heart.

In the thickness of night, they reached the purple harbor, devoid of the typical bustling of activity and deadly quiet, save the scurrying of rats seeking morsels of food and the prowling of alley cats hunting the harbor rats.

A few ships dotted the harbor, crew members inspecting sails or loading casks and crates of goods from the dock to the ship deck, captains shouting out orders here and there while inventorying the cargo. They paid no mind to them as they approached a small ship tucked away in the far right side of the harbor, its hull painted in purple like all the others.

The Elder Brother stood on the dock next to the ship, his body tense and his jaw clenched as they approached, clearly not partaking in the excitement passing between Sansa and Septon Meribald. When they approached, it was Sandor that the Elder Brother stared intently at, searching his face with solemn eyes.  _He knows. And he won't make this any easier._

With the silk of her dress swaying with the gusts of winds, Sansa approached the Elder Brother and kissed him on the cheek with a sweet smile.

"I am so happy to see you again, Elder Brother. And so soon, no less. The news is good?"

Dropping his eyes and with a deep sigh, the Elder Brother took Sansa's hands into his own, contemplating them with his head hung down.

"Yes, my Lady. The news is good. I will tell you all of it once we set sail to the wind."

With her smile melting away, Sansa searched his face, matching her eyes to his.

"It does not seem as if the news is good. Is something the matter? Is there bad news as well as good?"

Slowly, the Elder Brother lifted his stare to Sandor, his eyes filled with desperation, pleading with Sandor and silently repeating all of the admonitions he had given him, all the recounting of his own tragic past.

With her gaze passing back and forth between himself and the Elder Brother, Sansa watched as the men exchanged glances, communicating so much with just a solemn stare.

"What is it? What is going on?" Her voice was breathless, trembling as she seemingly understood without really knowing.

Neither himself nor the Elder Brother said anything, but instead held each other's stare before the Elder Brother relented and looked off towards the desolate harbor and leaving Sandor to turn towards Sansa. Reluctantly, Sandor shifted his weight from one leg to the other and with a deep sigh, he began.

"Sansa, Little Bird. I'm not…I'm staying in Braavos. I'm not going back to Westeros."

For a long moment, she stood completely still, her eyes drifting up and down his form, disbelieving before she shook her head and gave a nervous laugh, furrowing her brow.

"You…you can't be serious. Don't be ridiculous, we've come all this way. You can't stay here. You're coming with us. This is just a jape. Isn't it?"

Once again, Sansa shifted her gaze first towards the Elder Brother and then towards Septon Meribald, both men refusing to meet her stare and letting their heads hang down and their eyes fall away.

Shaking like a leaf, she turned her stare back towards Sandor, her eyes welling with tears and gasping for breaths.

"Oh Gods. You mean it. And you knew. This entire time you knew…you had this planned."

Her voice drifted off as she let her eyes fall to the deck and brought her trembling hands up to catch the tears that were spilling. Sandor felt a sharp pain reverberate through his chest, his own breath coming labored and his heart beating a thousand times per second, or so it seemed.

As he stepped towards her, he felt as though his legs were going to give out beneath him, that he would collapse to his knees in front of her.

"Little Bird, I want what is best for you. And I believe that this is for the best."

Angry, her head snapped up and looked him square in the eyes, her lips trembling as she choked out the words through sobs.

"For who? For you? Why are you doing this?"

Her chest heaved as her body was wracked with sobs. Sandor felt a frenzy within him; an urge to pull her into his arms and hold her there until the crying stopped and the pain melted away. He felt dizzy, felt as though he was spinning out of control.

Instead, the Elder Brother approached Sansa, taking her by the arms.

"My Lady, perhaps you should board the ship. A cabin has been prepared for you."

Shrugging off the Elder Brother, Sansa paced towards Sandor, her fists clenched and angry tears streaming out of her eyes.

"No! I want to hear it from him. Why? Go on, say it."

He wished he could cut open his own heart, show her all that was inside; everything he felt for her, everything he wanted for her, everything he wished he could be the one to give her. Even if it meant bleeding out, he would do it for her so that she could understand and rest a little easier knowing that all he ever wanted was to keep her.

He had spent his days in Braavos wandering the streets, thinking of all the words he might say in this moment, but those words betrayed him, fleeing his mind when he needed them the most and leaving him standing in silence.

With a pained look that hit him like a punch to the gut, Sansa began taking backwards steps away from him, with each step the cries coming louder and her gasps for breath becoming harder. Finally, she turned from him, running off across the dock and up the plank to the ship, disappearing from his sight with Septon Meribald heading off after her.

A thud and a splintering sound broke through the air. Sandor saw as a furious Elder Brother clutched his fist which was bloodied from punching a wooden barrel that was placed next to him. The man's face was turning a deep shade of red and his eyes were glazed with fury, his voice bellowing loudly from his lungs as he lunged at Sandor and he pointed his finger towards the ship.

"How can you be so blind? Look, Gods damn you! Is that the happiness you so desperately wanted for her? Is that what it looks like, you bloody fool?"

Sandor stumbling forward, feeling as though he might fall and feeling as if his lungs were burning within him.

"I never wanted to hurt her…never. I never meant to hurt her."

In a daze, he began back towards the harbor, mumbling his words as his vision became blurred. From behind him, the Elder Brother shouted after him, stomping his feet against the dock.

"You will regret this day. On your dying day, it is this moment which will haunt you. It will haunt you, Clegane, and her as well!"

Taking a deep breath and gulping the air down, Sandor steadied his focus in front of him. He knew not where he was heading; never had he felt so lost, so much a wanderer with nowhere to go. The harbor around him was deserted, not another soul in sight except his, or so he thought.

As he lifted his gaze ahead of him, a set of piercing green eyes met his, the old man in front of him unblinking as he regarded Sandor with an otherworldly perception, his presence ethereal and almost vaporous. In an instant, Sandor tensed and his vision came into focus, the fog lifting.

"It's you. You've been following me, haven't you? Well then, old man, I'll ask you this once. Who in Seven Hells are you and what the fuck do you want of me?"

Unmoving and with his eyes rippled with a strange stirring, the man began to speak, his voice clear as a bell and ringing through Sandor's ears.

"I haven't a name. No more than the gusting of the wind, or the salt of the sea, or the fire of stars."

Sandor could have snorted a laugh. He could have come up with a cutting quip to spit back at the man. But he didn't. He remained quiet, something beckoning for him to listen and to listen well to the man.

"The Elder Brother speaks truly. You are blind, Sandor Clegane. Blind to what is in front of you."

Feeling as though he was melting under the man's unearthly stare, Sandor let his eyes fall away.

"My eyes work just fine."

Although Sandor had turned his gaze away, the old man still remained in his vision, floating and shifting like a mist to wherever Sandor let his eyes wander.

"Look not with your eyes lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be. To stay here, you shall wander lost. Oh such a grievous cost! Go now and you shall be set free."

As Sandor looked up, the old man was directly in front of him and somehow grew to stand at a height with Sandor, his green eyes glowing like wildfire. In an instant, Sandor understood and felt as though he was, for the first time, truly seeing.

"Look not with your eyes, Sandor Clegane, lest you will never see. You must go now before it is too late."

Frantic, Sandor snapped his head over his shoulder and saw as the ship was pulling away from the dock. When Sandor turned his head back towards the old man, he was gone, vanishing into the night, leaving an eerie emptiness behind.

_What the hell am I doing? No, this isn't right._

He may not be a knight and he may not be a Lord, but he loved her and that was more than he needed to know.  _'And love is enough. It just is.'_

The Elder Brother's words pierced through his mind as Sandor ran back towards the dock, as fast as his legs could carry him. Sandor loathed running, but in this moment he felt his life depended on speed, on reaching the ship before it was too late, before the only thing he ever wanted to keep, the only thing he had ever loved, slipped through his hands all because he had been blind, so very blind, to what was in front of him.


	9. Chapter 9

_'Each possesses what the other lacks, two matching pieces of the same mold; one cannot exist without the other, for should they separate they are destroyed.'_

"…I'm staying in Braavos. I'm not going back to Westeros."

_'And so we wander this earth, each of us possessing one half of a whole soul.'_

"Little Bird, I want what is best for you. And I believe that this is best."

_'We cannot exist without our counterpart, not truly. And so we wander, through however many lifetimes it takes, until we are complete.'_

With a sudden pull, Sansa felt as though she was lifted from her own body, floating as a mist up towards the heavens and watching from above as her corporal form stood there in the darkness below, helpless and wracked with uncontrolled trembling. Although she was cradled somewhere outside of herself, Sansa felt the pain all the same, as if her heart was being ripped apart, fiber by fiber, and she was powerless to stop it.

_'Only then can we return to the heavens, united again as one soul, the way we were meant to be.'_

"For who? For you? Why are you doing this?"

From somewhere up above, she watched and listened, as if the events unfolding below were happening to someone else, some other poor soul trapped in a body with a breaking heart. But as she heard the heartsong from her own higher consciousness exit the lips belonging to the form below in tremulous mewling sounds, pleading questions to him in desperate demands to understand, Sansa knew it wasn't happening to someone else. Over her own gasping cries and his reticent fumbling over unrehearsed words, the story the Septon had told her was loud in her own ears; the story she had clung to all those lonely nights in Braavos when her heart ached at his absence and defeated tears fell from her eyes as she longed for something she never possessed in the first place.

_'…Should they separate they are destroyed.'_

Sansa would have given much and more to remain suspended outside of her own body, to drift away towards the endless unknown expanse above and to melt into the most beautiful of stars, a crystal breathed to life and hung in the sky by the hands of divinity. Slowly at first, she felt the tugging, the subtle reminder that soul and body must ultimately unite once more. The slow meandering was short lived and with a suddenness that threatened to steal her breath away, Sansa felt a violent pull on her ethereal form as she began careening back towards the heartache and the reality that the man she had trusted to never leave her, the man who had  _told_  her he would never leave her again, was solemnly saying his goodbyes.

With gentle tugs, the Elder Brother protectively took Sansa by both of her arms, his hands softly encircling her forearms as his eyes settled pleadingly on her.

"My Lady, perhaps you should board the ship. A cabin has been prepared for you."

The man had circled around her and he was now standing between her and Sandor. Despite his placement, Sansa scarcely saw the Elder Brother. His form blurred in her vision as she kept her eyes heavy on Sandor; her stare as intent on him as the Elder Brother's was on her.

As strongly as she felt the pull on her astral body, Sansa had felt Sandor being pulled away from her, the intensity of the forces entirely equal yet dreadfully opposite. However, his departure from her had been achingly gradual. Through the crystalline perceptiveness of hindsight, Sansa knew his withdraw commenced before they had even set off for Braavos. With an otherworldly awareness, she had known and even if she hadn't, the nights and days spent alone and wandering the Sept by herself had told her all she needed to know. Yet she had been reluctant to believe that he would leave her, that he would separate the two halves of the whole she had come to believe him and her to be.

With all the naïveté she had possessed as a girl, Sansa clung to the hope that perhaps his icy aloofness and sudden rages could be ridden out like the howling gale of a storm and that she could shutter her heart against its mighty surge. But deep within that shuttered heart, Sansa had indeed known; the truth a nagging beacon of blinding light illuminating the darkness of her self-induced ignorance. And with Sandor standing before her, that damned light, grotesque and encompassing, was burning its way through the darkness and forcing her to see all she had feigned blindness towards. Brightest amongst the glaring orbs of truth was the revelation that, like the Smith, Sandor Clegane had toiled over his future and crafted his own fate; future and fate matching in that they were devastatingly devoid of a place for Sansa. To her, that revelation- its light, its truth-was by far the most glaringly painful and sobering of all.

With a sudden flush of anger erupting within her and steadily pushing through the shroud of anguish, Sansa yanked her arms away from the Elder Brother and paced towards Sandor, her tiny hands circling into tight fists. The Hound had his anger; his brooding, seething fury that had consumed his being in King's Landing. Sansa too had her own anger; manifested in a stream of salty tears against hot cheeks as her chest frantically rose and fell with her gasping of breaths.

"No! I want to hear it from him. Why? Go on, say it."

The first time in her life that time stood still Sansa was standing on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, looking on proudly yet nervously as her father confessed treasons he never truly committed and pronounced Joffrey the true heir and king of the realm. She had scarcely heard the shouts of the crowd that had gathered, for the beating of her own heart was thundering through her ears. Each second felt like a lifetime as she watched and waited for her once golden prince to prove his love to her and spare her father. With each passing moment, time slowed to a halt as her stomach knotted violently within her body.

With her eyes boring through Sandor, Sansa watched as every muscle in his body seemed to tense beneath her stare. Breathless, she waited and watched as the man she thought was the Warrior to her Maiden remained utterly silent. The world itself seemed to fall away and disappear to a silent darkness in the periphery of her vision as she waited, the seconds seeming to crawl by. And as with the tortuous moments leading up to her father's beheading, time seemed to slow to a halt as Sansa felt her stomach once more knot violently within her.

Without a sound, Sandor let his eyes fall away from her and instead focused his stare somewhere off in the distance, gazing mindlessly at some far off point as the burnt corners of his mouth twitched. For many moments, she waited for him to speak, to offer some parting token of reciprocated affection, something to which she could cling in the coming nights of heartache where tears would sweep her to sleep and dreams would haunt her long after she awoke. Sansa watched as his lips parted slightly and heard as he drew a sharp intake of breath, yet still no words came, nothing by the way of explanation for his inexplicable decision. In that moment, Sansa understood. He had nothing to give, nothing to say.

Feeling as though the veil had finally been ripped from her eyes, unbidden tears streamed down Sansa's cheeks. Her lungs burned like wildfire in her chest as the frantic instinct to flee surged through her veins in time with the pounding of her heart. In slow steps, she backed away from Sandor. With a far-off stare, he stood before her; stoic, impassible, and refusing to meet her insistent gaze. Spinning away from him, Sansa's legs began to carry her across the dock towards the waiting ship, one foot swinging in front of the other as she ran with stumbled steps.

From behind her she heard footfalls syncopated with her own, the rhythm matching hers and gaining steadily. For a fleeting instant, she thought it was him coming after her. The thought simultaneously made her heart sing a hymn of false hope and her stomach churn with the promise of vomit.

Hopelessly, she wanted him to come after her, to tell her that he had been wrong and it was just a careless mistake. Yet somewhere within her, she knew that the footsteps quick behind her did not belong to him. A man like Sandor Clegane would never jape like this. He did what he pleased, without apology and utterly aware that no one would ever dare stand in the way of what the fearsome Hound wanted. Foolishly, she had thought that  _she_ was what he wanted. All those nights spent alone in Braavos, she had whispered to the stars, her prays reaching the heavens on trembling breaths and bathed in salty tears.  _'Let it be me'_ , she had whispered.  _'Let me be his match, his missing piece and he mine.'_ Each night, she would drift on a sea of those fallen tears into sleep blessed by beautiful dreams of them together as they were meant to be; each of their forms coalescing until they were indistinguishable and melded into one and placed amongst the stars above.

But each morning, Sansa would awake alone as her dreams decayed away into a screaming silence and in their void left a dreadful sense of aching. With each passing day she felt him sail further away from her as he seemingly navigated his own future, leaving her adrift and floating aimlessly.

She had suffered without him in King's Landing, dreamed of him in the Eyrie, collided into him in the Vale. He had opened his barricaded heart to her and although it was a tiny sliver of light against the darkness, he had done it all the same. Yet as they reached Braavos, somehow that infinitesimal fissure had closed shut; his heart sealed off from her and his final words cauterizing the slit where the opening had once been.

She felt like a fool, like a pathetic little fool wishing by day and dreaming by night that he could be her match, the missing piece that she had spent lifetimes searching for. Wistfully, she had dreamed for it to be true, just as wistfully as she had dreamed of gallant knights coming to whisk her way from Winterfell and make her their lady love.  _'I was a fool then and I'm a fool now,'_ Sansa thought bitterly to herself as she made her way towards the waiting ship.

Her legs ached with each pounding of her feet against the inclined wooden plank leading up to the deck. When she was certain her throbbing limbs could carry her no further, Sansa reached the top of the plank. As she stepped onto the Braavosi vessel, her legs finally gave out from underneath her, melting to useless lumps of flesh and bone as she collapsed to the deck of the ship.

Sansa gripped her chest as she felt a sharp pain rip through her rib cage where her heart rested beneath her heaving breasts. Truly, it felt as if the Stranger himself was clutching her heart and ripping it from her body. As she choked on each of her sobs, she felt as though her breath was slowly being siphoned from her lips. Desperately, Sansa fought to fill her burning lungs with air until her breaths came hyperventilated and gasping. She suffocated on silent sobs, wanting to wail out her sorrow, but couldn't manage even that. Instead, her cries came silent as she worked for the air her lungs so badly needed.

With her face buried in the palms of her trembling hands, Sansa felt the warmth emanating from her cheeks and the wetness of tears that spilled forth from her eyes. She could feel as the skin beneath her damp cheeks pulsated in time with the frantic beating of her heart.  _A heart that's broken shouldn't beat. It should remain entombed in silence and stillness._

It seemed a cruel and queer fate; for the Gods above to let her heart continue beating, pulse after pulse, despite the heartache she had endured since leaving Winterfell. And yet the rhythm of her heart remained loud in her own ears; the horrifying beat a war drum portending the near-constant onslaught of sorrow that had besieged her spirit and battered her body. With each pounding of her embattled heart, the waves of pain came relentless and steady, armored with an all-too-familiar sting and wielding an excruciating pressure as she struggled to fill her lungs.

Scampering to her side, Septon Meribald crouched before her, the look of concern carved deep into the subtle folds of his face.

"Breathe, my Lady. Just breathe."

The Septon pulled her shaking hands into his, wrapping them tightly and squeezing as if to infuse her with his strength. She knew he meant well, but it wasn't the Septon's strength she needed in this moment and it certainly wasn't the Septon's strength she longed for. Convulsing in sobs, Sansa pulled her hands free and shrank away from him, sliding herself across the slick wooden planks of the deck beneath her while she choked on her own words in a voice dark with suffering.

"I can't. Please, I can't."

Undaunted, the Septon shifted towards her, yanking her into his arms and pressing the palms of her hands flat against his chest. Slowly, he inhaled a breath, filling his lungs until his chest swelled, and then let go in a steady release through parted lips.

"Do as I do. And breathe."

His eyes deliberately set in on her as he drew in his breaths and released before repeating the cycle again. With a persistent rhythm, the Septon continued his breathing as Sansa felt the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"That's it. Just breathe."

With synchronous rhythm, Sansa matched her breathing to his, pulling in her breaths as his chest rose and releasing as his chest receded away.  _Rise and fall, rise and fall._ Sansa imagined the internal mantra ushering away the pain; the ebb and flow of her breaths like the tides of the ocean toiling away for eternity and witling away at boulders until nothing remained but a million or more grains of sand. With each breath, she shed the burden of her pain, diminishing it by an imperceptible fraction of an amount, but eroding it nonetheless.

The light of the moon above was blotted away by a shadow looming above her, the form casting her in darkness. Sansa lifted her head to find the Elder Brother standing before her, his eyes glazed with a retreating fury that seemed to match the intensity of sorrow in her heart. Squeezing his eyes shut, the Elder Brother sighed deeply, releasing the tension in his body only to don his all-too-familiar cloak of disquiet. Sansa had seen him this way; his hands tightly wrung in front of him, his brow softly furrowed in unrest, and his eyes flooded with a strange sense of empathetic sorrow as if the events unfolding struck a painful chord within him.

' _Forget not what I have told you…all that I have told you_.' Sansa remembered his ominous words to Sandor before they had set off from the Quiet Isle. She also remembered the way an unspoken understanding had passed between the two men. When she had inquired about the exchange, Sandor had withdrawn into himself, rasping out a biting response which was more reminiscent of Joffrey's Hound than she had cared to admit at the time.

Pushing against the deck and wriggling away from Septon Meribald, Sansa rose to her feet and with small steps came to stand before the Elder Brother. She surmised that the Elder Brother had protested Sandor's decision to part ways with her yet she felt the sting of betrayal all the same. She felt like a fool, as though every soul in the world knew but her. Try as she might, Sansa could not stifle the acrimony that tinged her words.

"You knew. On the Quiet Isle, you knew. And he knew. He had this planned even before we left for Braavos."

Once more the Elder Brother closed his eyes, seemingly blinding himself to Sansa standing before him as she sought out the truth with eager eyes. Biting his lip, the man solemnly nodded his head before opening his eyes again. This time his gaze settled on Sansa, the pain of his confession settling in the creases at the corners of his eyes as he contemplated her with something akin to regret.

Sansa felt a tugging of curiosity, a hungry need to know the words that had passed between the Elder Brother and Sandor. However, the thought of that knowledge made her stomach burn and her breaths thin to trembling gasps. Her heart could handle only so much truth and she had a lifetime to know the truth in its entirety. For now, there was only one question she truly needed to know the answer to, no matter how it might shatter the shards of her breaking heart.

"In the Sept before the eyes of the Gods, he said I was the only thing he ever wanted to keep. Why then? Why?"

This time Sansa's words came pleading while tears hung in her eyes, blurring her vision as the Elder Brother shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. For many moments, the man searched for his words; his mouth opening before closing once more and his eyes flickering with a yearning need to divulge all the truths she sensed he was sheltering. When he finally spoke, his voice quaked with uncertainty and remorse, regretfully speaking someone else's peace.

"He spoke the truth. He confessed the same truth to me. You are the only thing he ever truly wanted, his need for you eclipsing the hatred that had fueled his being for so long. You ask why. Fear. Fear that he might lose you, fear he might do wrong by you, fear he might never be what he thinks you deserve. He wanted everything for you; the world, the moon, the sun, the stars, the very heavens above. He wants to be the one to give that to you, but fears he can't. He wanted to give you a chance at happiness."

As the Elder Brother finished, Sansa felt her lips quivering, moist with tears that had spilled from her eyes and over her cheeks. It was all she had wanted to hear and more, but the words had formed on the wrong lips. She wanted to hear it,  _needed_ to hear it from him, for Sandor to confess those truths to her. Perhaps he thought he might spare her some pain by withholding or perhaps he was craven, unable to yield his pride in the last moments he would spend with her. Sansa lifted her hand to her cheek, swiping away tears as they fell and resolving herself to remain composed.

"You say he wanted everything for me yet he took from me the only thing I wanted. Him. If our fate was truly one…"

_Then he has destroyed my fate as well as his._

Sansa halted the unspoken words at her lips, afraid that her breaths might manifest them to life and although they had already been fulfilled, the pain of speaking them aloud was too much for her to bear. But the Elder Brother had understood nonetheless, reading between the lines and offering what little he could by way of reassurance.

"Free will is as much a part of our existence as fate, Lady Sansa. Our fate is the destination in our journey, but free will is the path we take to get there. Many paths lead to the same destination although some are better paved than others."

Huffing his breaths, Septon Meribald shuffled forward and approached hesitantly as he shifted his stare between the Elder Brother and Sansa, obviously wrought to interrupt.

"My Lady, the captain would like to set sail to the wind. However, if it is your wish to wait, just in case…"

As Septon Meribald's voice trailed off, Sansa let her eyes fall away towards the darkness of night that blanketed the Free City. Settled between the meandering streets of the city, a thick fog billowed throughout the harbor and wrapped the merchant shops in an ethereal mist. From the fog, Sansa's eyes were met with the dull radiance from orbs of light, signs that the city was beginning to emerge from its slumber and dawn would soon be approaching. Soon the moon would dance from the sky so that that sun might pirouette to its own peak and the harbor would bustle with its usual activity. The night had been stigmatized with unknowable heart ache yet the sun would rise once more and life would continue on unaware of all that had been suffered beneath the twilight heavens. Time might erase the hurt, but Sandor had left her all the same, abandoned her once more to set off on his own.

Somewhere in the darkness she knew he was there. It was as though she could  _feel_ him. Perhaps she had always felt him; an otherworldly understanding of when he was near and an inexplicable aching when he was not. Sansa knew little of where he was going and less of why he was going, but she knew he was still close.  _Close enough that I know he's out there. And that he feels me too._

The Elder Brother shifted next to Sansa, his eyes searching the darkness so that he might see what Sansa was so wistfully contemplating with a solemn serenity beginning to envelope her. With a mournful smile pulling at the corners of her lips, Sansa knew the Elder Brother would never see what she saw in the darkness beyond the ship. With slow steps, Sansa approached the side of the ship, her hands folding softly against the course wooden banister. With her eyes still settled on the harbor, Sansa spoke her words as much to the darkness that shrouded half of her soul as she did to Septon Meribald.

"No. I don't believe it will be necessary to wait."

Sansa pushed herself from the rail, turning away from the darkness for now and for eternity until they might meet again in another lifetime. Biting her lip to stave off the onslaught of tears she felt burgeoning within her, Sansa lifted her stare to the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald, both contemplating her with wonderment and somber understanding.

"He chose his fate. And now I choose mine."

With that Sansa began towards the cabin that had been prepared for her, placing one foot in front of the other and resolving herself not to turn around. She knew if she turned back she might crumble. Instead, she retreated from all she had come to want, defeated and broken hearted. All she had to do was get to her cabin and then she could let herself unravel, but for now she needed the strength to walk away. And so she pulled in deep breaths, futilely quelling the urge to fall headlong into the agony and desperately exerting all effort she could to keep herself composed until she reached the privacy of the cabin.

From behind her, she heard the ship crew scurrying about, each man busying himself with a predetermined task. Sansa distracted herself as she imagined what their tasks might be; pulling up the plank connecting deck to dock, untying the ropes from the dock cleats, adjusting sails for the favor of the winds. As she felt the ship beneath her feet lurch forward with a pull, she knew the vessel was no longer bound to the harbor and was beginning its journey out to sea.

Reaching the door to the cabin, Sansa lifted her eyes to the heavens above and prayed on tremulous breaths that perhaps she too could be unbound from the pain she had come to know as her journey began towards an unknown future, one she had not chosen for herself.

* * *

"Fucking Seven hells!"

Sucking in his breath through clenched teeth, Sandor gripped the leg that had been wounded at the Inn of the Crossroads. He had ridden through half of the Vale and back to the Quiet Isle before setting out to Dyre Den and across the Narrow Sea to Braavos. In all that time, his leg hadn't given him trouble. True enough, in the mornings he was afflicted with a sore stiffness that eventually worked its way out by the time he had dressed and broken his fast. Although he walked with a slight limp, his leg had seemed to heal quite well, surpassing the Elder Brother's original prognosis.

Now of all times, his leg seemed to stiffen with each pounding footfall as he raced towards the dock. With sharp throngs of pain shooting up his limb, Sandor cursed under his breath. He would sacrifice his bloody leg if it meant he could reach the vessel in time. The thought of losing Sansa to his own stubborn blindness and a lame leg infuriated him beyond the stretch of his own imagination.

The ship had begun to pull away from the harbor as a young Braavosi man unfastened the last rope from a dock cleat, liberating the ship from the harbor. Sandor's vision blurred with a flurry of anger and his breaths quickened with panic. With all his might, he urged his legs forward, cursing each and every one of the Gods, the old and the new, as his injured leg began to scream its protest with blinding pain. When he finally stumbled onto the dock, the Braavosi dock hand darted forward, arms flailing as he spouted out angry words in his foreign tongue. Unable to respond and beyond that unwilling to acknowledge the dock hand, Sandor pushed past the young man in faltering steps. Regardless of the fact they did not share a common language, the man had to either be blind or stupid not to understand the irritation that flickered behind Sandor's eyes as his hand instinctively curled around the pommel of his sword.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sandor saw the unfastened rope trailing through the black waters of the bay; the freed end slithering like a snake through the water and the other end terminating somewhere on the ship. The rope was his only chance at making it onboard the vessel which was easing its way from the harbor. Having followed Sandor's frantic eyes, the dock hand lurched forward towards Sandor, blocking his vision of the rope and shouting out a slew of Braavosi words a mile a minute while pointing back towards the harbor.

With a few limping strides, Sandor flew towards the man, drawing back a clenched fist before cutting through the air with a driving force that landed square in the man's face. The man brought his trembling hands up to the ruin of his nose, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as the blood oozed forth onto his hands. Sandor stood ready with clenched fists, daring the man to stand in his way once more. Understanding Sandor's intentions without a word, the man turned from him whilst muttering what had to expletives under his breath.

As the Braavosi man slipped off into the night, Sandor dove into the water of the harbor and frantically searched out the end of the rope, which had disappeared somewhere within the inky depths of the bay. Sandor loathed running, but he truly  _hated_  swimming. With his large frame and the bulkiness of his heavily muscled body, Sandor was more likely to sink like a rock than swim. It was a risk he was willing to take as his arms spliced through the water, pushing his form forward while his eyes eagerly searched out the rope.

Giving in to his frustration, Sandor thrashed about the water, gulping in the saltiness with each inhaled breath. He wanted to rage, to release his anger in a frenzy of fists and screams. Instead, he lifted his eyes to the sky above, ready to curse the divinity it supposedly contained. As the clouds passed above him, giving way to a milky expanse of stars, Sandor found that he was instead overcome with a sense of calm. For many moments, he remained still, letting the rippling of the water around him steady to a gradual halt.

When he returned his gaze towards the ship setting off before him, he spotted a subtle shifting of the water and the rope cutting through as quietly and easily as a sword cuts through flesh. Filled with a renewed vigor and determination, Sandor propelled himself through the water towards the rope, willing with everything he had for his eyes to remain steadfast upon it.

Feeling the fatigue settling into his body, Sandor gasped out his breaths as he reached towards the rope. With an iron tight grip, he set one hand in front of the other, guiding himself along the expanse of the rope until he managed to become flush with the side of ship. Pressed against the side of the ship and hanging on precariously to a rope that very well might snap under his weight, Sandor lifted his eyes up, gauging the vertical rise towards the deck of the ship. While it was a small vessel, a trade ship meant to travel a circuit between Braavos, Gulltown, and perhaps Pentos, the ascent was daunting nonetheless, especially as his leg throbbed with pain.

Extending his arms above him, he gripped the rope as he pulled his knees high to his chest. Inhaling a deep breath, Sandor pinched the rope between his feet. Standing up, he reached up for the rope once more, repeating the process in methodical motions as he inched his way up. With each cycle of his motions, Sandor felt his injured leg becoming numb and trembling with weakness. Reluctantly, his eyes searched above him as he panted out his breaths with rasping groans. He was only half way up the side of the ship and his leg was threatening to release its hold on the rope.

Releasing his feet, Sandor hung from the rope and swung himself forward, allowing his feet to catch his weight against the side of the ship. Sandor tried to pull himself up on the rope, allowing his legs to guide his way up the side of the ship. His boots slipped against the slick planks of wood, offering nothing by the way of friction so that he might pull himself up with brute force.

The muscles of his arms burned as he clung to the rope, knowing full well that if he released his hold he would fall headlong into the waters below, breaking bones and losing his Little Bird to the night and the Narrow Sea. With that thought fueling his resolve, Sandor once more pinched the rope between his feet and began the slow ascent once more.

Each push of his legs on the rope was becoming more painful than the last. His labored grunts had given way to agonizing screams through gritted teeth. Looking up once more, the railing of the ship was almost in reach; one or two more pulls of the rope would bring him to the edge of the ship. Sandor squeezed his eyes shut and gulped in the salty air before once again setting into the excruciating task at hand. With a slew of curses, Sandor pulled himself towards the railing of the ship. Extending a trembling hand, his fingers wrapped around a thick wooden baluster of the ship railing as he exerted his last amount of energy to pull himself up and swing his legs over the side of the ship.

With his vision a blur of pain, Sandor collapsed to the deck, his breaths heaving from his chest as his body was wracked with trembling. Despite the almost miraculous way it had healed, Sandor knew without a doubt he had reinjured his leg. Truly, he may now be lame in one leg, just as the Elder Brother had originally predicted. Sandor found he could care little and less of his damned leg. Turning to his side, he pushed himself up and stumbled forward as his legs refused to hold his weight. As he clung to the railing of the ship, Sandor brought his gaze up to a handful of stunned faces peering at him through the darkness of night. Desperately, he searched for her face, for her perfectly beautiful face, but all he saw was the weathered faces of Braavosi sailors; olive colored skin lined with age and chapped with the relentless lashing of the salty ocean air, all looking on with something between bewilderment and panic.

With his sword hanging at his side and his saturated tresses plastered against the side of his grotesquely burned face, Sandor imagined he must look like the Stranger himself, coming to usher in a dance of steely death. Leaning his full weight against the rail of the ship, Sandor felt himself reeling as his vision remained an opaque blur of pain and his stomach churned with a belly half full of salt water. Off in the distance, Sandor heard the adamant pounding of boots against wood and the shouts of a Braavosi man who was angrily making his way towards Sandor. ' _The fucking Captain,'_  he grunted to himself. Sandor despised the cockiness of knights and loathed the arrogance of lords. To him, captains of ships possessed both cockiness and arrogance enough to put knights and lords alike to shame.

From the periphery of his hazy vision, Sandor saw the Elder Brother hurriedly making his way towards the Captain, assuaging the man with broken Braavosi words interjected with pleas in the Common Tongue. Seemingly mollified for the time being, the Captain shot a derisive glare towards Sandor, his eyes bulging with agitation as his lips sealed together in an angry scowl.

Regaining his full vision, Sandor watched as the Elder Brother paced towards him with a look of utter astonishment painting his face and his head shaking in disbelief. Grasping him by the forearms, the Elder Brother pushed his weight against Sandor, helping him to regain his feet as he pushed himself from the railing of the ship to stand on wobbly legs. With his mouth agape, the Elder Brother searched Sandor's face, looking as though he was seeing a ghost.

"How…how did you?"

Agitated and fatigued from his physical exertion, Sandor pushed past the Elder Brother, stumbling towards the thick cylinder of wood that made up the foremast and leaning his weight against it. In a frenzy, Sandor's eyes swept across the deck, seeking out the only thing he wanted and needed in this moment amongst the fog that blanketed the deck of the ship.

"Where is she?"

Sandor's voice rasped from his lips, an exhausted sigh as he struggled to catch his breath. With Septon Meribald falling in at the Elder Brother's side, the pair of men exchanged bewildered stares, both shaking their heads and fumbling over their words with brows knitted in confusion. With his agitation steadily growing, Sandor heard the words bellow from his chest as he staggered forward, peering around the mast as he frantically searched for Sansa.

"Where the  _fuck_  is she?"

Turning back towards the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald, Sandor found the two men were staring off towards the main deck of the ship that extended behind him. Hesitantly meeting his demanding stare, the Elder Brother declined his head towards the main deck, motioning towards something behind him.

He knew that she was there. He could almost  _feel_ her presence. Somehow he had always been able to feel her. Even in King's Landing, he would roam the Red Keep on his nights off; shitfaced drunk yet somehow able to find her as he followed the indescribable feeling which always led him to her.

Letting their eyes fall away, the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald retreated wordlessly towards the forecastle of the ship, but not before each gave Sandor a solemn parting stare. He understood what he saw gleaming behind their eyes.  _Don't fuck this up. Not again, don't fuck it up._ He could almost hear them saying it, each in their own way; the Elder Brother intimating the pain he himself had been through at the loss of the woman he loved and the Septon mumbling on about intertwining fates and hearts that beat as one.

Through trembling breaths, Sandor slowly spun on his heel as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, both of which were now howling in pain. But the pain did not matter to him and he found it hardly seemed to faze him as he turned to face the divine being that stood behind him.

While she was no more than four paces from him, the distance might as well have been leagues for all he was concerned. If she wasn't wrapped in his arms where she belonged, Sansa might as well have been a world away. She still wore the silver silken dress that Septon Harmon gifted her, although the fabric was creased and crumpled about the skirt, a symbol of sorts that betrayed the difficulties of the evening. In the pale light of the moon with a vaporous fog gathering about her ankles, Sansa looked every bit of the celestial being that he had come to her acknowledge her as; his Little Bird swathed in Lunar light and possessing all the solemn serenity and ethereal splendor of the Orb of Night itself.

The waist-length cascade of her auburn hair rippled softly with the wind as loose strands clung to the tears that saturated her cheeks. Even in the darkness, her eyes shone a radiant blue although they were flooded with anguish and he surmised they glistened with fresh tears. Sandor could see that her cheeks burned red and her eyes were strained and puffy from crying. Not since the days after her father's beheading had he seen her like this, a somber shell of the vibrant and wistfully sweet creature he had known her to be.

Without prompt, his legs began towards her, melting away the space between them until he stood before her. Desperately, he searched her face, eagerly letting his eyes settle over her in a silent plea for her warmth. With an eerie silence, Sansa's far-off gaze remained straight ahead of her, as if she was willing herself to peer through him, to not see him standing before her. As he lifted his shaking hands to her cheeks and brushed away the strands of hair that adhered there, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and bit her bottom lip to quell its trembling.

Since he had found her in the Vale, Sandor could count on two hands the number of times Sansa Stark had almost brought him to his knees. Their first night together he had mocked her for crumbling under his stare, his touch. Yet it was him that had crumbled beneath her stare, the way she regarded him with so much tenderness and trust when he had done nothing to deserve it. With just a look, a sweet quivering of her lips or the way she blushed softly or the breathy, sing-song words that passed her lips, kind and gentle words meant for his ears, Sansa Stark had almost brought him to his knees;  _almost_ because he had always fought it, too proud, too stubborn, and too stupid to realize all she was to him.

But in this moment, Sandor surrendered to the numbness he felt spreading through his throbbing legs as Sansa manifested from the salty mist which filled the evening darkness. He sunk to his knees, letting himself crumble before her. Desperately, he reached for her, encircling his arms around her waist and burying his face in her stomach, needing to be near her and to have her in his arms. With deep inhales, he breathed her in before exhaling his breaths, breaths which formed into the exhaling of her name.

Sandor had never prayed to the Gods, the old or the new, but he had seen others pray in Septs. Always, they sunk to their knees and pleaded to their God of choice; men before battle desperately praying to the Warrior, women sending their sons or husbands to war seeking favor with the Mother, nobles and low-born peasants alike pleading with the Gods above. All of them lifted their hands to the heavens, speaking the name of their chosen God and whispering in thin voices for an answer to their prayers.

Sandor felt like a sinner and in truth he was. And for the first time in his life, he prayed. But Sansa was his God and it was to her that he prayed, sunk to his knees in veneration and breathing out her name as he clung to her, desperate for her to answer his pleas.

For many moments she stood where she was, unmoving and staring straight ahead, her body rigid in his arms and her breaths coming slow and methodical from her lips. She did not tremble at his touch nor did she let out a tiny gasp as his fingertips squeezed her gently. Her cheeks were not flushed with a sweet, timid blush nor were her eyes shyly considering him with gentle affection and unwavering trust. She had turned to ice in his arms, stoic as stone with a sudden coldness where an encompassing warmth had once been.

And then he felt her take two tiny steps backwards, moving herself away from him and breaking apart his arms which were encircled around her waist. He thought she meant to turn away from him; to walk away and leave him on his knees in front of her, fraught with desperation for her sweet smiles, for her gentle eyes, and most of all for her forgiveness.

Sandor hung his head, unwilling to watch her walk away lest it destroy him although he imagined he deserved it. And then he felt as Sansa placed a tiny hand softly on his shoulder. Still collapsed on his knees, he let his eyes drift up her form until he met her stare. She had once looked at him with impossible adoration and unfaltering trust, looks that stole the breath from his lungs and made him feel like putty in her hands. In this moment, Sandor found that he was afraid to look her in the eyes, scared at what he might find there. Would she regard him as others had his entire life? Would she look at him as if he were a dog, scarcely human? Or would she look through him, as if he were invisible to her?

Despite fearing the worse, he looked anyway. With her hand still resting on his shoulder, what he found in her eyes sent a panging ache through his body which settled heavily in his heart.  _Sorrow. She's hurting. I've hurt her._

Once his eyes met hers, Sandor found that he couldn't peel them away and instead kept his stare intently on her, his breaths coming heavy and heaving as he watched and waited. As the moon broke through the clouds, Sandor saw the glittering of tears hanging in her eyes. Silently and with a serenity beginning to envelope her, she let her hand fall from his shoulder and rest at her side before taking two more tiny steps away from him.

Frenzied and feeling as though the world was crumbling to pieces around him, Sandor reached out for her, his arms desperately seeking to bridge the space between them, but falling hopelessly short as she kept taking steady steps backwards and away from him, the hurt still gleaming behind the tears in her eyes. Sandor let himself fall forward, reaching so far that he ended up on hands and knees.

"Sansa. Little Bird." His voice scarcely sounded his own; the rasp was familiar, but the trembling as her name left his lips was wholly unrecognizable.

As his voice reached her ears, she closed her eyes, releasing the tears that had been precariously hanging to fall down her cheeks and over her quivering lips. Opening her eyes and shaking her head slowly, Sansa turned away from him and retreated into the darkness, not turning back and her steps quick and resolute.

Sandor sank further on his knees, doubling over and cradling his head in the palms of his hands.

The first time he had lost her, he had stumbled into her bed chamber as the sky was painted in green and orange. He was broken and reeling and never expected her to come with him, to escape the city as it burned. As he retreated from a furious Tyrion and baffled Joffrey, Sandor had already decided he would leave the city that night. He knew Sansa wouldn't be in her chamber; she would be holed up with Cersei and the other hens in Maegor's. Yet he went to her chambers anyway, desperately needing one more moment with her, even if she wasn't truly there. And so that moment came as he crawled into her bed, filling his lungs with the scent of her that lingered on the pillows and bed linens, it was his last moment with her; his last chance to breathe her in, to surround himself with the one thing that had ever moved him, shook him to his core, and opened his eyes. And for the first time in as long as he remembered, he had tasted the saltiness of tears as they mingled with the blood of dead men that had begun to dry on his face. He was a broken man.

As she retreated away, he felt as though he had lost her once more. And once more he felt a salty wetness against his cheek. Whether it was the saltiness from the ocean air condensing on his cheeks or the saltiness of tears, he knew not, but he reckoned it was the latter.

Sandor remained sunken to his knees, pleading to his Goddess of the Night and wishing that he could go to her; that he could pull her into his arms and hold her there until she understood everything she was to him. She had peeled herself away from him and relinquished him to the darkness. If he needed to and he surmised he might, Sandor would spend the rest of his days proving all he felt for her. After what felt like an eternity, Sandor pushed himself to his feet and limped his way towards the rail of the ship.

Gazing off to the expanse in front of him, Sandor saw that the night was beginning a slow withdraw from the sky as the eastern horizon permeated a gradient of blues and violets. With soft steps, the Elder Brother fell in at his right side, resting his hands gently against the rail of the ship. After Sansa had fled to the waiting vessel, the Elder Brother had shed his usual tranquility and instead had swathed himself in a thick layer of rage, a consuming anger that Sandor had never known to associate with the man. Sandor had not known and hadn't truly spent time perseverating on how the Elder Brother might respond as he miraculously careened towards the deck of the ship, soaked in salt water and panting out his breaths in labored groans. Standing next to him, the Elder Brother remained quiet, staring far off into the distance until turning to Sandor, his voice gently prodding.

"If you need rest, or wine, there-"

Adamantly shaking his head with a stubborn tenacity, Sandor gripped the rail of the ship, effortlessly wrapping his fingers around the wooden banister.

"No. No more wine, no more whores, no more. I'm done with it all. Seven bloody hells, it's what got me into this mess. That and my own fucking stupidity."

For the first time in as long as Sandor could remember, the Elder Brother lifted his hopeful eyes to Sandor with the slightest of smiles pulling subtly at the corners of his mouth. No longer did the man consider Sandor with pained admonition and desperate pleading. Instead, something akin to pride shone through his weary eyes. Many silent moments passed between the men before Sandor spoke once more, staring off towards the rippling black waters lopping softly against the side of the ship.

"When I was a boy of five, my father took me to Lannisport for a tourney that was being held in honor of the young Targaryen prince, a boy of twelve at the time. I had never been to a tourney before and my father thought it might be a bit of a reprieve from Gregor's temper, which had been flaring worse than usual.

Although he was of an age with most squires, the Dragon prince unmounted Gerion and Tygett Lannister along with about a dozen of Tywin Lannister's finest jousters. Mesmerized, I watched as Rhaegar unhorsed each of his opponents with as much grace as ferocity. He was everything I imagined a true knight to be; poised, courageous, and the pure embodiment of knighthood. When he was named champion, nobles and commoners alike cheered his name and sought his favor. I looked on silent and fascinated and wishing with everything I had that one day I could be like Rhaegar Targaryen, a true knight and a champion.

For the next two years, I held onto this dream, kept it as far away from my brother Gregor as I could lest he destroy it. When I played outside, sometimes I would take my baby sister and pretend she was some highborn Lady in distress. With a wooden sword, I would stave off foes wishing to capture my sister; trees, bushes, stones. None could withstand me, the self-proclaimed true knight, Ser Sandor Clegane. And I dreamed of one day crowning my own Queen of Love and Beauty, a beautiful maiden that would blush at my words, give sweet smiles meant only for me, and even sing songs of lovers, Florian and Jonquil perhaps. The perfect lady for a true knight.

Those dreams melted away the night Gregor caught me playing with his toy knight and dragged me screaming to the brazier. Four years later, Gregor was knighted by Rhaegar Targaryen himself. Imagine my horror. My brother, the monster, a knight made by the very man I had admired and aspired to be. If only Rhaegar had known that Gregor would eventually rape and murder his wife with the blood and brains of Rhaegar's son still on my brother's hands."

With the bitter memories filling his head and settling like lead in his center, Sandor shook his head as his jaw clenched tightly in remembrance. Placating to Sandor's rising disquiet, the Elder Brother shifted his pensive gaze towards Sandor.

"Rhaegar Targaryen forsake his birthright and ultimately lost his life, all for his Queen of Love and Beauty. A Stark girl if my memory serves me."

"Aye. Seven Kingdoms and his lifesblood. A small price to pay for a Stark girl. I've fought alongside more knights than I can count; watched them butcher innocent people, rape and pillage. And then my  _brothers_ of the Kingsguard. I watched them beat Sansa bloody. I failed her then. I abandoned her in King's Landing. And now this. I don't have Seven Kingdoms to give her, but I'd give her everything I do have. My lifesblood, if she wanted it."

Sandor felt the familiar stirring of guilt rise within him more fiercely than he had ever felt it before. As his rage bubbled up within him, he realized how truly  _blind_ he had been. Stupidly, utterly, horribly blind and it had almost cost him everything.

"You learned at a young age the sham that is knighthood. And you tried to make her see. To be a true knight, one need not take the vows; those are nothing more than words in the wind."

Turning his head over his right shoulder, the Elder Brother stared off towards Sansa's cabin before beginning once more.

"If I dare say so, you are more a true knight than any anointed knight I've met. And to Lady Sansa,  _your_  Queen of Love and Beauty, that is all that matters.  _Be_ the man she deserves,  _be_ the man she needs. If you can give her that, you will have given her everything she truly wants. You."

Sandor knew that now. He had known it before yet had blinded himself to it, disbelieving that Sansa Stark could ever truly feel for him all that he felt for her. With a flush of vigor, Sandor stood tall on his aching legs, his grip still iron tight to the wooden banister of the ship railing.

"I won't leave her again. I can't." With his passion relenting slightly, Sandor turned to the Elder Brother, reluctantly holding the man's stare as he whispered a rasp of a confession. "I'm afraid of failing her yet again."

Once more, the Elder Brother's mouth curled into a slight smile, understanding that Sandor Clegane, one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms, had admitted his own fear. Sighing deeply, the Elder Brother crossed his arms about his chest and let his eyes retreat to the fading darkness in the sky above.

"I once befriended a Maester during my travels in the Riverlands. He was a solemn sort of man and had lived a life full of sorrow. He never told me as much, but one can always tell. Sorrow settles behind the eyes for all the world to see. This Maester seldom spoke, but when he did speak, the room fell silent and listened as if his words were formed from the breath of the Gods themselves.

One day while in this Maester's company, we made the acquaintance of a local bard who traveled from tavern to tavern. Listless, the singing man told us how he had spent many days and nights trying to compose a song to sing in the taverns. You see, he had grown tired of singing the bawdy tunes the tavern folk loved so dearly. His soul craved poetry, something resplendent in its elegance and prose. And so he posed the most curious of questions to the Maester and me. The man asked 'What do you believe to be the most poetic thing in all the world and the heavens above?'

I knew my answer immediately. Why, I thought we all knew the answer. The love of a beautiful woman, of course! The bard quickly agreed, but the Maester fell silent, his eyes misting over with something I could not comprehend, not then at least. For many moments, we waited for the Maester to answer the question.

And when he did answer, he turned to us, the singer and myself, and with all the austerity and sadness gleaming behind his eyes, the Maester answered with this: the most poetic thing in all the world was not the love of a beautiful woman, but the death of a beautiful woman.

Horrified, the singer was speechless. You can imagine what a feat that is, to render a bard speechless. I myself was deeply disturbed by this answer. But once more, as the Maester continued, it seemed as if the earth itself fell silent to listen to his words.

The Maester never knew his mother, she died when he was an infant. But he knew the legacy she left behind. She was a beautiful woman, charming and beloved by all who had known her. But he had never known her, you see. He never felt the warmth of her embrace no more than he ever bathed in the light of her spirit. He came into the care of a woman who was a dear friend of his mother. She raised him as her own with a gentle tenderness and he came to regard her as a second mother. She too was beautiful, her kindness radiated from within.

When he was four-and-ten, the Maester aspired to be a knight and went to squire for a noble knight. Not long after he came into the service of this knight, a raven came, terrible news clutched between its claws. His second mother had fallen ill and passed away in her sleep. The Maester was heartbroken, beside himself in grief.

Many years later, the wound of his heart had healed and the Maester met the daughter of a miller. Her beauty was beyond compare, he said. The sun itself was a mere candle to the beaming splendor of this woman. Deeply he fell in love with her; an all consuming love which he was astounded she eagerly reciprocated. They married and lived a quiet existence. Ten turns of the moon after their wedding, his wife was swollen with their first child. From the beginning, her labor was difficult; the midwife was deeply concerned at the amount of blood loss. The child had passed before birth, entering the spirit world while still in her mother's womb. As for the Maester's wife, she entered the arms of the Gods not long after. After burying his dead, the Maester traveled to Old Town and offered himself as a novice to the Citadel.

As I listened to this Maester recant all the sadness he had known in his lifetime, I realized: it's not the death of a beautiful woman that is poetic, it is the tragedy. With a solemn pride in myself, I turned to the Maester and declared, 'It is the tragedy that is so poetic.'

Each of these women he had loved and each had been beautiful. The Stranger came for these women, kissed them with death and wrapped them in his icy embrace. He had lost his loves to death. One might say that this is the greatest tragedy the human heart can know. But the Maester did not believe this to be true and neither do I. Not anymore.

Love withers. Love becomes tainted by lust, greed, pride, and most of all, by fear. To lose love to death is no tragedy. The far greater tragedy is to let love wither away, let it slip through our fingers like grains of sand because we are too proud, too greedy, too lustful, too fearful. To let love decay away, that is the tragedy because we have cheated ourselves from the opportunity to know love in its purest form. The Maester knew that even though to death he had lost the women he loved, he was blessed for having known love in its truest form, unsullied by the shortcomings of a fearful heart.

In love and in life, fear is our undoing. It unravels us in a slow and steady pull until we are nothing."

Letting his eyes retreat from the sky, the Elder Brother turned towards Sandor, willing his parting words to be heard.

"Afraid or not, be the man she needs. You owe it to her, but you also owe it to yourself, Clegane."

With that, the Elder Brother left Sandor alone in his thoughts, his mind reeling and his heart pounding within his chest. Sandor had fought in battles since he was twelve; beginning with Robert's Rebellion and ending with the Battle of the Blackwater. Save from fire, he feared nothing and knew he could cut through any opponent that dared enter a melee with him. Despite this, Sansa Stark, soft-spoken and harmless, had brought him to his knees and in as long as he could remember, he was terrified.

She had given him everything he had ever dreamed of; blushed at his words and his touch, offered sweet smiles he sensed were meant only for him, and she even sang for him. Although it was not the Song of Lovers, she had sung a song of mercy, a song to calm his rage and soothe his broken soul.

Sandor knew it was now his turn to give her everything she had ever dreamed of; to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to be brave and gallant and just, to act with honor and valor.

And most of all, to be a true knight if only in action and not in name. Despite his fear, he would try to be her true knight and he would succeed because failure meant losing her. And it was the fear of losing her which terrified him the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, MANY apologies for taking so very long to update. Life got super hectic REAL fast.
> 
> A special thank you to wonder woman, Underthenorthernlights for all of her encouragement and for helping me through a serious case of writer's block. Thank you!
> 
> The Maester's story is an adaption, or rather a musing, of a quote from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Philosophy of Composition," in which he states that the death of a beautiful woman is the most poetic topic in the world. Although Mr. Poe does not elaborate on it, a common theme in his works is the loss of love to death, which he himself experienced quite often in his lifetime.
> 
> Thank you for all who comment on this story and have patiently awaited an update!


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